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K  I  L  M  E  N  Y. 


QV  NoueL 


By  WILLIAM   BLACK, 

AUTHOR   OF  "     '~ 

'GREEN   PASTURES   AND   PICCADILLY,"   '-ADVENTURES  OF  A   PHAETON," 
"A   PRINCESS  OF  THULE,"   "A   DAUGHTER  OF   HETH,"  &c. 


HARPER     &     BROTHERS     PUBLISHERS 
NEW   YORK  AND  LONDON 


c 


\\\ 


Novels  by 
WILLIAM   BLACK 

A  Daughter  of  Heth 

A  Princess  of  Thule 

Donald  Ross 

GREE^f  Pastures  and  Piccadilly. 

In  Far  Lochaber. 

In  Silk  Attire. 

Judith  Shakespeare      Illustrated 

Kilmeny. 

Macleod  of  Dare      Illustrated. 

Madcap  Violet. 

Prince  Fortunatus. 

Sabina  Zembra. 

Shandon  Bells      Illustrated. 

Stand  Fast,  Craig-Royston!    Illustrated 

Sunrise. 

Strange  Adventures  of  a  House-boat.     Ill'd. 

That  Beautiful  Wretch.     Illustrated. 

The  Magic  Ink.    Illustrated. 

The  Strange  Adventures  of  a  Phaeton. 

Three  Feathers. 

White  Heather. 

White  Wings.    Illustrated. 

Yolande      Illustrated. 

Each,  i2mo,  $7.25. 

Wolfenberg Si. So 

The  Handso.me  Humes 1.50 

Briseis      Illustrated 1.75 

Wild  Eelin.    Illustrated 1.75 

Highland  Cousins .    ,    .     1.75 

Complete  Sets,  28  vols  ,  $33.50 

HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  PUBLISHERS.  N.  Y. 


3n  eincm  Zi)cd,  bet  nrmcii  .^-lirtcn, 
©rfc^ien  mit  jebem  iunflcn  3a()r, 
®cbalb  bte  erften  Serc^en  fc^wirrten, 
^gt^  3[Rab^en  jc^Bn  unb  iruubetbat. 


CONTENTS. 


I.  Mt  Mastek 9 

II.  My  Home 16 

III.  My  Uncle  Job 22 

IV.  My  Friend 32 

V.  In  Regent's-  Park 43 

VI.  The  -S^sthetic  Grotto 54 

VII.  Some  Old  Fkiends 68 

VIII.  Polly's  Mother 77 

IX.  Lewes  Castle 86 

X.  Polly  and  He 98 

XI.  Mr.  Alfred  Buunh am 104 

XII.  At  Shoeeham 1 10 

XIII.  BuRNHAM  Park 114 

XIV.  The  Ladies'  Garden 1 26 

XV.  The  Last  of  Uncle  Job 130 

XVI.  In  London  Again 137 

XVII.  Kilmeny 144 

XVIII.  The  White  Doves  ...   151 

XIX.  The  Haunted  House 165 


VIU  CONTENTS. 

Chapter  Fasb 

XX.  Some  Revklations 172 

XXI.  Qdits 186 

XXII.   A  Wild  Guess 191 

XXIII.  Mv  Patuon 205 

XXIV.  The  Royal  Academy 214 

XXV.   Leu'Woul! 21!) 

XXV I.  The  Villa  Lokenz 221 

XXVII.  Da.s  Wandekleben 232 

XXVIII.  Father  and  Son 210 

XXIX.  The  Song  of  Woldnduh 250 

XXX.  News  from  England 2G2 

XXXI.  Bonnie  Lesley's  Metaphor 270 

XXXII.   Innsbruck 282 

XXXIII.  IIkathehleigh's  Feat 290 

XXXIV.  At  Bdknham  Gates 297 

XXXV.  The  Dropi-ed  Glove 306 

XXXVI.  On:  Trusty  Cousin 316 

XXXVII.   Is  Munich  Again 324 

XXXVllI.    KiLMENY  CoME.^   UoME 328 


K  I  L  M  E  N  Y. 


CHAPTER  I. 

MY    MASTER. 


I  WAS  not  born  to  command  men.  The  keen,  audacious  spirit 
which  plans  the  building  of  bridges,  lays  down  great  lines  of  rail- 
way, and  gets  up  prodigious  companies  was  always  a  mystery  to 
me — a  mystery  as  depressing  as  the  things  themselves.  I  used 
to  be  afraid  of  large  mechanical  works — used  to  wonder  what 
sort  of  men  first  undertook  to  raise  immense  viaducts,  drive  tun- 
nels through  mountains,  and  plan  huge  ships.  The  mere  size  of 
a  church  made  me  sad.  And  when  I  met  men  who  seemed  to 
have  splendid,  matter-of-fact  strength  in  their  faces — men  who 
had  hard,  clear,  literal  views  of  things — who  were  on  equal  terms 
with  the  newest  enterprises,  and  were  capable  of  imagining  even 
newer  and  bigger  things,  I  almost  feared  them.  A  tall  man  over- 
awed me  as  a  big  building  did.  Then  the  great,  rich  people,  who 
had  such  a  royal  way  with  them — the  men  who  could  stare  a  beg- 
gar out  of  countenance,  who  could  quite  honestly  look  at  a  trades- 
man or  a  waiter  as  a  sort  of  divinely  appointed  slave,  who  could 
do  cruel  things  when  the  law  allowed  them,  and  laugh  over  the 
misfortune  of  their  weaker  opponent — they,  too,  were  among  my 
mysteries.  The  world  was  too  big  and  strong  and  rich  and 
hard-hearted  ;  and  I  feared  it. 

I  used  to  make  a  world  of  my  own,  in  wliich  there  were  no  gi- 
gantic walls,  or  gaunt  buildings,  or  lonely  squares  with  cold  iron 
railings  and  melancholy  trees.  It  was  a  world  which  I  must,  have 
borrowed  from  some  theatrical  scene  ;  for  it  only  consisted  of  an 
Irish  lake,  surrounded  by  hills,  under  moonlight.  I  used  to  im- 
agine myself  living  always  by  this  lake,  and  listening  to  the  old 

A2 


10  KILMENT. 

Irish  airs,  which  seemed  somehow  to  hover  round  about  it,  and  be 
its  very  atmosphere.  At  night  I  would  he  in  a  boat  on  the  still 
surface,  with  the  moonlight  on  the  sedges  and  trees ;  and  the  mel- 
ody that  always  came  then — like  the  lake  itself  speaking — was, 
"Silent,  O  Moyle,  be  the  sound  of  thy  waters!"  Fancy  falling 
asleep  to  that  pathetic  wail !  Then  for  the  brisk  morning  breeze 
and  the  sunshine — the  joyous  "  Garryowen  "  falling  into  the  plain- 
tive minor  of  "  Shule  Aroon."  And  somehow  that  always  led  on 
to  "  Love's  Young  Dream  " — the  old  air  which  no  repetition  can 
rob  of  its  exceeding  sadness — sad  as  love's  young  dream  itself — 
which  is  the  saddest  thing  a  man  meets  with  on  this  side  of 
death. 

I  suppose  it  all  arose  from  my  being  physically  not  the  equal 
of  my  neighbors.  I  saw  big,  strong,  handsome  men,  and  they 
were  to  me  as  demigods.  Was  it  not  their  right  that  they  should 
have  plenty  of  money  and  beautiful  wives,  and  a  fine,  domineer- 
ing manner,  and  a  splendid  carriage  to  whirl  them  homeward  to 
their  grand  dinners  ?  Notwithstanding  my  having  been  born  and 
bred  in  the  heart  of  an  English  county,  I  was  small  and  slight ; 
I  was  sallow  of  face  ;  I  was  hungry-looking ;  and  they  used  to  say 
that  my  eyes  stared  like  those  of  a  young  crow.  Once  Big  Dick 
— of  whom  you  will  hear  more  by  and  by — in  a  kindly  mood,  be- 
gotten of  too  much  beer,  said  to  me — 

"  Look  here,  Ted,  I'll  tell  you  what  you  arc  like.  Did  yon 
ever  snare  a  rabbit,  and  take  it  up  before  it  was  dead  ?  Did  you 
ever  catch  it  by  the  back  of  the  neck,  and  look  at  its  wild,  fright- 
ened, big  eyes,  that  were  full  of  fear  and  trouble?  You  always 
look  to  me  like  a  caught  rabbit,  half  dead  with  fright,  and  like  to 
cry,  if  you  only  could.  My  sister  had  eyes  like  you.  I  wonder 
if  you  would  cry,  like  her,  if  you  heard  pretty  tunes?  Ted,  I 
think  you  were  meant  for  a  girl." 

I  did  not  tell ;  but  that  I  used  to  cry  bitterly,  in  secret,  over 
certain  kinds  of  music — especially  some  of  these  Irish  airs  I  have 
named — was  too  well  known  to  myself.  You  must  not  suppose, 
however,  that  this  altogether  arose  from  physical  weakness.  So 
far  as  muscular  force  went,  I  was  strong.  I  had  a  broad  chest. 
My  arms,  rather  long,  were  tough  and  sinewy.  When  the  fit 
came  across  me,  I  used  to  torture  myself  with  physical  exercise, 
to  get  rid  of  my  plethora  of  nervous  strength.  I  will  say  nothing 
of  my  having  seen  a  boy,  twice  as  big  as  myself,  beating  a  little 


MY    MASTER.  11 

girl  one  day  in  High  Holborn.  I  so  nearly  strangled  him  that 
the  sight  of  his  face  has  never  been  erased  from  my  memory. 

I  used  to  have  my  dreams,  of  course.  I  used  to  imagine  my- 
self one  of  those  big,  handsome,  florid-faced  men,  with  lots  of 
money,  witli  beautiful  women  my  friends,  with  the  power  of  go- 
ing whither  I  pleased,  with  the  delight  of  having  no  master.  Oh 
the  luxury  of  lying  in  bed  as  long  as  you  might  wish  !  Oh  the 
happiness  of  walking  out  in  the  sunny  forenoons — with  no  fear 
of  coming  work — to  saunter  idly  by  the  gray  Serpentine,  and 
watch  the  blowing  of  the  leaves  of  the  trees !  To  have  no  mas- 
ter and  lots  of  money !  But  it  was  not  for  me — I  was  too  small 
and  insignificant.     These  things  were  for  the  big  and  proud. 

You  may  ask  how  such  a  one  should  have  a  story  to  tell ;  and  I 
reply  at  once  that  there  is  nothing  heroic  of  my  doing  which  I  shall 
have  to  record  in  these  pages.  But  I  have  a  tenacious  memory  : 
life  has  seemed  very  various,  and,  on  the  whole,  very  beautiful  to 
me  ;  and  I  venture  to  set  down  some  sketch  of  what  I  have  seen 
and  known,  that  others  may  judge  whether  they  see  the  world 
with  the  same  eyes.  Hence  I  must  beg  the  reader  to  regard  the 
following  narrative  as  wholly  impersonal;  the  word  "I"  will  oc- 
cur frequently,  too  frequently  ;  but  it  will  merely  represent  a  lens, 
and  the  reader  is  asked  to  look  at  the  picture  only.  There  are 
some,  curious  in  such  matters,  who  may  be  inclined  to  analyze  the 
peculiarities  of  the  lens  by  watching  the  distortions  they  will  find 
in  the  pictures ;  they  too,  I  hope,  will  not  be  disappointed,  if 
frankness  will  help. 

Now  if  there  was  anybody  likely  to  cure  one  of  mooning  and 
day-dreaming,  it  was  my  master.  His  name  was  Weavle,  but  we 
generally  called  him  Weasel.  He  was  a  carver  and  gilder  in  High 
Holborn ;  and  he  employed  three  men  and  myself.  He  was  in  a 
fair  way  of  business,  dealing  more  with  artists  than  with  the  gen- 
eral public,  and  hence  it  was  that  I  came  to  know  so  many  artists. 
His  shop  adjoined  the  Royal  Oak  Yard,  and  the  work-room  win- 
dows looked  into  the  stone  square  of  the  old  Royal  Oak  Inn,  into 
which,  every  forenoon,  the  Buckinghamshire  omnibus  is  still 
driven.  How  I  used  to  look  out  of  the  dingy  gray  panes,  and 
envy  the  rosy  and  happy  faces  of  the  people  who  came  in,  with 
the  light  of  the  country  in  their  eyes,  and  the  keen  breeze  painted 
on  their  cheeks !  How  I  used  to  envy  the  people  who  got  up  on 
that  coach,  and  were  taken  away  out  of  the  great  close  town ! 
But  to  my  master. 


12  KILMENV. 

Weavle  was  a  short,  thin  man,  round-shouldered,  with  a  pale 
face,  a  bald  head,  and  small  reddish-gray  eyes.  He  was  queru- 
lous and  captious  as  an  ill-bred  and  angry  woman ;  he  had  a 
shrewish  tongue,  a  diabolical  temper,  and  a  nature  so  indescriba- 
bly petty  and  mean  that  I  despair  of  conveying  any  notion  of  it. 
He  walked  about  in  thick,  soft  slippers,  for  the  express  purpose 
of  catching  his  men  in  some  small  delin(iuency ;  and  then  he 
would  stand  and  scold  with  a  spite  and  ingenuity  of  epithet  that 
were  wonderful.  It  was,  I  believe,  the  thing  dearest  to  his  heart, 
this  angry  declamation,  in  which  he  exhibited  a  marvellous  power 
of  saying  everything  that  could  wound  a  man's  feelings  to  the 
quick,  and  humiliate  him  before  his  fellows.  He  laid  traps  for 
the  men.  He  slid  about  like  a  sj)ectre,  and  watched  them  with 
the  eyes  of  a  detective.  And  he  never  went  out  of  the  workshop 
without  turning  sharply  round  to  see  if  any  one  were  grinning 
over  his  washerwoman  speeches. 

The  very  keenest  pleasure  I  have  in  life  is  this.  Sometimes, 
even  at  this  remote  period,  in  this  remote  and  foreign  town,  1 
dream  for  a  whole  night  that  I  am  again  iindcr  Wcavle's  domina- 
tion. I  have  to  submit  to  the  insult  of  his  stealthy  footsteps,  to 
the  virulence  and  meanness  of  his  scolding ;  the  old  pain  and 
heart-sickening  return,  the  bitterly  cold  mornings,  the  dull  days, 
the  hopeless  labor,  the  weary  struggle  against  })overty.  The  day- 
light breaks,  and  I  fancy  that  I  have  to  go  and  submit  to  that 
cruel,  mean  old  man.  And  then,  slowly,  as  if  sunshine  were  fill- 
ing the  room,  I  begin  to  have  the  consciousness  that  there  is  no 
Weavle,  that  all  the  bad  time  is  past,  that  T  am  my  own  master, 
with  my  own  plenteous  time,  and  my  own  plenteous  money — 
that  I  am  free  1  It  is  almost  worth  while  to  have  had  one's 
heart-blood  sucked  for  years  by  a  Weasel  to  know  the  intense, 
strong  joy  which  accompanies  that  conviction. 

The  man  was  not  always  mean  and  offensive;  at  night  he  slept. 
And  if  in  his  dreams  lie  ever  saw  a  company  of  angels,  I  know 
that  his  first  instinctive  impulse  was  to  watch  them,  lest  they 
should  be  stealing  their  master's  time. 

It  was  this  poor  little  tyrant  who  first  tauglit  me  to  love  the 
great,  generous  forces  of  nature.  It  was  when  1  thought  of  him, 
and  of  his  unutterable  pettiness  and  suspicion,  that  I  grew  to 
know  and  love  the  sea,  the  long  swathes  of  light  across  the  blue, 
the  far-off  coast- line,  and  the  moving  splendors  of  the  clouds. 


MY    MASTER.  13 

Even  at  tliis  moment  I  cannot  bear  to  look  on  a  river  or  an  estu- 
ary. There  must  be  no  land  on  tbe  other  side,  nothing  but  the 
great  plain  on  which  the  winds  came  down  darkling,  or  on  which 
the  sunlight  sleeps  still  and  warm,  blurring  the  horizon-line  with 
a  mist  of  heat.  Indeed,  the  whole  bent  of  my  life,  physical  and 
mental,  has  been  escape  from  Weavle.  That  I  am  now  free  I 
have  already  hinted,  and  I  propose  to  tell  the  story  of  my  re- 
lease. 

Perhaps  you  ask  if  my  companions  regarded  Weavle  as  I  did. 
First  let  me  say  a  word  about  them.  Big  Dick  was  a  man  who 
stood  six  feet  one  in  his  stocking-soles;  he  had  a  massive  and 
strong  frame,  a  fine  chest,  tangled  black  hair,  and  a  handsome 
face,  flushed  by  much  drinking.  Ilis  wife  was  dead.  He  had  a 
little  boy,  whom  he  had  handed  over  to  his  sister,  thus  leaving  him 
free  to  follow  his  own  courses.  And  regularly  as  Saturday  came 
round,  so  regularly  did  Dick  get  drunk ;  and  drunk  he  continued 
until  the  following  Wednesday.  Then  he  would  come  in  to  his 
work,  his  big  scarred  hand,  with  its  protuberant  knuckles,  swollen 
veins,  and  horny  finger-tips,  trembling  and  uncertain,  his  eyes 
bleared  and  lustreless.  He  was  gruff,  and  would  not  speak  to  us 
then.  By  Thursday  the  black-sheep  feeling  wore  off,  and  he  set 
to  wo'-k  to  make  up  for  lost  time.  He  w^as  a  splendid  workman, 
and  by  the  Saturday  had  always  amassed  as  much  wages  as  he 
wanted  for  his  needs.  He  was  remarkably  good-natured,  and  be- 
ing "  a  rare  handy  man,"  was  in  much  request  among  the  neigh- 
bors. He  could  glaze  and  paint,  and  hang  wall-papers,  and  work 
in  stucco — in  short,  he  could  do  everything,  and  he  was  always 
ready  to  do  it  as  a  neighborly  turn,  if  you  allowed  him  his  neces- 
sary liquor.  Dick  good-humoredly  said  of  his  master  that  Weasel 
could  not  hold  his  tongue  if  he  tried,  and  that  he  did  not  mean 
half  of  what  he  said.  When  Dick  got  into  trouble,  he  bore  the 
rancorous  and  scurrilous  speechifying  with  resignation,  and  only 
gave  a  sigh  of  relief  when  Weasel  slipped  out. 

But  you  should  have  heard  what  Joe  Risley  had  to  say  about 
my  master.  Throughout  the  trade  Joe  was  known  as  "  The  Roy- 
al"— because,  on  Coronation-day,  Joe  had  dressed  himself  in  a 
Coronation-coat,  and,  having  got  a  little  tipsy,  made  a  rush  foi- 
ward  to  the  Queen's  carriage,  in  order  to  shake  Her  Majesty  by 
the  hand.  Joe  very  nearly  lost  his  ear  by  a  dragoon's  sword,  and 
was  picked  up  from  among  the  horses'  feet  with  his  coat  rent  in 


14  KILMENY. 

twain.  Perhaps  it  was  this  circumstance  that  had  made  "The 
Royal"  a  furious,  bitter  Radical.  He  was  a  dark -whiskered  ca- 
daverous man,  with  big,  lambent  black  eyes,  a  weak  cliest,  and  a 
shaky  frame.  He  had  read  extensively — especially  in  history  ; 
and  when  woke  up  by  some  argument  into  fierce  fight,  the  eyes 
used  to  glow,  and  the  frail  figure  quiver  with  excitement.  But 
he  rarely  spoke  of  these  things  except  when  he  was  drunk ;  and 
then  he  would  describe  to  you  the  scattering  of  the  Allies  at  Aus- 
terlitz  with  sweeps  of  the  arm  that  threatened  all  the  glasses  near 
bim,  or  he  would  pronounce  a  panegyric  on  Napoleon  which 
might  have  done  Hazlitt  credit.  Napoleon  was  his  great  hero. 
He  forgave  the  conqueror  his  despotism  in  view  of  the  terror  he 
had  struck  into  the  hearts  of  "  the  leagued  band  of  kings."  It 
was  as  well  that  Joe  seldom  became  excited  about  politics  in  the 
shop ;  for  then  he  used,  in  his  entliusiasm,  to  destroy  the  gold- 
leaf,*  sending  fragments  flying  into  the  air  as  if  he  were  Napoleon 
blowing  into  chaos  a  whole  vvorldful  of  diplomats.  "  The  Royal" 
looked  upon  Weasel  as  the  personification  of  the  tyranny  of  mon- 
ey, and  used  to  curse  him  between  his  teeth  as  a  usurper  and  an 
aristocrat. 

"  Kent"  is  hardly  worth  speaking  about.  He  was  a  pale,  flax- 
en-haired young  man,  who  got  into  a  terrible  fright  when  Weasel 
caught  him  doing  anything  and  began  to  rage.  I  scarcely  think 
he  had  any  particular  desire  or  aim  in  the  world.  He  was  con- 
tent if  he  got  his  work  done  in  good  time ;  and  sometimes,  but 
rarely,  he  took  a  holiday,  which  he  spent  in  lying  upon  Hampstead 
Heath.  He  seemed  to  have  no  friends ;  and  never  wont  down  to 
Dartford,  his  native  place.  His  real  name  was,  I  think,  Taplin  or 
Toplin. 

Such  were  my  companions  in  Weasel's  shop ;  but  they  were 
very  differently  situated  from  myself.  They  were  men,  and  in- 
dependent of  other  men.  They  could  spend  a  half-crown  with- 
out thinking  much  of  it.     Above  all,  they  were  free  to  work  when 

*  I  need  hardly  say  that  Weavle  cheated.  He  never  allowed  a  leaf  of 
"deep  red"  to  he  used  where  "Dutch  metal"  could  be  used  in  its  place; 
and,  instead  of  the  ordinary  varieties  of  "lenaon,"  he  had  all  nrianner  of  for- 
eign abominations,  whicii  invariably  turned  green  or  bhick  in  course  of  lime. 
Big  Dick  rebelled  against  tliis  more  than  against  the  scolding;  for  he  was 
I)roud  of  his  work,  and  he  did  not  like  to  let  a  frame  leave  his  hands  which 
he  knew  would  change  its  color  after  being  hung  up  in  some  gentleman'* 
room,  and  subjected  to  London  gas  for  ten  or  twelve  months. 


MT    MASTER.  15 

they  pleased,  to  be  idle  when  they  pleased.  If  the  whim  came 
into  their  head  (that  it  never  did  was  always  a  puzzle  to  me), 
they  could  have  snapped  their  fingers  in  Weasel's  face,  and  gone 
off  to  spend  a  whole  day  on  the  banks  of  the  Serpentine,  assured 
that  next  morning  they  could  get  work  elsewhere.  At  least  they 
could  take  a  holiday ;  and  my  notion  of  a  holiday  was  always 
associated  with  the  Serpentine.  I  loved  that  little  bit  of  water  as 
if  it  had  been  the  sea.  I  used  to  make  it  a  sea  by  sitting  down 
on  one  of  the  benches  and  shading  my  eyes  so  as  to  hide  the  op- 
posite bank — so  that  I  could  see  nothing  but  the  gray  rippling 
water,  hear  nothing  but  the  wind  in  the  trees  overhead  ;  and 
then  I  grew  almost  faint  with  the  dull  dumb  joy  of  being  alone 
by  the  sea.  I  forgot  the  rich  people  who  were  riding  up  and 
down  the  Row  behind  me ;  I  saw  none  of  the  poor  idling  loun- 
gers who  stood  at  the  end  of  the  lake,  and  threw  crumbs  or 
stones  at  the  ducks.  There  was  nothing  before  me  but  the  wind- 
stirred  water,  and  where  I  could  see  no  more  water,  I  imagined 
water  until  it  touched  the  sky.  Sometimes  I  fancied  I  could 
hear  the  sound  of  waves  on  the  far-oflf  coast ;  sometimes  I  fancied 
I  could  see,  just  on  the  line  of  the  horizon,  a  faint  white  speck  of 
a  ship  appear,  catching  a  touch  of  gold  from  the  sunset.  The 
Serpentine  is  small  and  insignificant,  doubtless ;  but  so  is  a  sea- 
shell,  and  the  sea-shell,  if  you  are  alone,  and  if  you  listen  closely, 
will  tell  you  stories  of  the  sea. 

As  I  dreamed  there,  on  certain  rare  occasions,  I  grew  to  think 
that  life,  for  me,  was  scarcely  worth  the  having.  My  existence 
was  a  blunder.  I  was  not  fitted  to  cope  with  the  forces  around 
me,  and  wrest  from  them  that  alone  which  would  have  made  life 
endurable.  I  had  no  clear  idea  of  what  that  was :  I  only  knew 
that  it  was  unattainable.  What  lay  before  me  ?  A  life  similar  to 
that  pursued  by  my  companions  in  Weasel's  shop  woiild  have  been 
sufficiently  distasteful,  even  had  I  had  the  fine  physique  and  good- 
humor  of  Big  Dick,  the  keen  interest  in  political  affairs  of  Risley, 
or  even  Kent's  imperturbable  temperament.  What  was  the  use 
of  me  to  anybody — to  myself  even  ?  The  mere  object  of  keeping 
one's  self  alive  with  nothing  to  look  forward  to  but  the  endless 
round  of  work,  in  which  one  could  take  no  interest,  was  disheart- 
ening in  the  extreme.  Many  and  many  a  time  I  wished  that  I 
could  compress  my  whole  life  into  a  few  moments,  and  make  it 
useful  to  some  one  who  would  kindly  thank  me  for  it.     One  of 


1 6  KILMENY. 

those  beautiful  women,  for  example,  who  rode  by !  Could  I  not 
throw  away  my  life  at  her  feet,  doing  her  some  slight  service,  and 
earn  from  her  the  gratitude  of  a  smile  ?  My  life  was  a  weariness 
to.  myself :  could  I  make  it  heroic  and  worthy  even  for  a  second, 
by  yielding  it  to  the  service  of  one  of  those  peerless  women, 
who  were  so  far  away  from  me — so  cold  and  beautiful  and  dis- 
tant? 

As  I  sit  here,  under  a  blue  and  Southern  sky,  thinking  of  that 
old,  sad,  ridiculous  time,  some  one  looks  over  my  shoulder,  and 
reads  these  words,  and  laughs. 


CHAPTER   IL 

MY    HOME. 

It  was  the  month  of  primroses ;  and  the  wind  blew  fresh  and 
mellow  with  the  promise  of  the  summer.  Even  in  the  London 
streets  there  was  a  strange  sweetness  in  the  air,  and  a  new,  keen 
light  in  the  sky.  And  on  that  morning,  when  I  was  free  to  go 
home  for  a  whole  couple  of  days,  the  spring  seemed  to  have  taken 
a  clear  leap  ahead,  and  got  into  a  fine  breezy  summer  warmth. 
As  I  made  my  way  to  the  Great  Western  Railway  Station,  the  gray 
dawn  broke  into  a  pale  saffron,  and  the  light  lay  aK)ng  the  tall, 
silent  houses  and  their  rows  of  windows.  Beautiful  houses  they 
were  —  up  by  Park  Lane  and  Coimaught  Place  and  Eastbourne 
Terrace — but  I  was  no  longer  oppressed  by  them,  or  by  the  grand 
people  who  lived  in  them.  I  snai)ped  my  fingers  at  the  closed 
white  shutters  and  the  lowered  green  blinds.  I  laughed  aloud  in 
the  empty  streets,  to  the  amazement  of  solitary  policemen.  I 
skipped  and  hopped,  and  tried  to  jump  impossible  jumps;  so 
that  I  reached  the  station  half  an  hour  too  soon,  and  speedily  got 
sobered  down  by  the  melancholy  gloom  of  tli(»  place  and  the  of- 
ficial gravity  of  the  porters. 

But  then  again,  as  the  train  got  out  and  away  from  liondon — 
leaving  Holland  Park  :nid  its  tall  houses  pal(>  and  silvery  in  the 
east — and  we  were  among  the  warm  bright  meadows  and  lidds — 
with  the  sunlight  shimmering  over  tlic  young  green  of  the  trees — 
with  the  sweet,  pure,  sj)ring  wind  rushing  through  the  open  win- 


MY    HOME.  17 

dows  of  the  carriage — with  the  joyous  motion  of  the  train,  and 
the  thought  of  utter,  unrestrained  freedom  and  pleasure  for  two 
entire  long  days — was  it  possible  that  I  should  feel  unkindly  to 
any  man  or  place  ?  I  blessed  London  —  after  Notting  Hill  was 
long  out  of  sight.  I  began  to  think  "Kent"  almost  an  enliven- 
ing sort  of  person,  and  very  nearly  forgave  Weasel. 

There  were  to  be  grand  doings  at  Burnham  House,  and  at 
Burnham,  the  little  village  down  in  the  heart  of  Bucks,  where  my 
father  and  mother  lived.  Miss  Hester  Burnham,  the  last  of  that" 
long  line  which  had  given  several  prominent  names  to  English 
history — particularly  during  the  great  King-and-Parliament  strug- 
gle— had  just  come  home  from  France  to  live  in  England.  My 
father  was  head-keeper  at  Burnham — a  man  who  ought  to  have 
been  born  in  feudal  times;  and  it  was  somehow  his  notion  of 
what  was  right  and  proper  that  I,  though  having  nothing  to  do 
with  Burnham,  ought  to  be  there  when  this  important  event  came 
off.  Fain  would  I  have  gone  down  on  the  top  of  the  coach  that 
daily  leaves  Holborn  for  these  quiet  Buckingliamshire  parts,  and 
done  the  journey  in  the  old  picturesque  fashion  ;  but  I  should  have 
reached  Burnham  too  late  in  the  evening ;  and  so  I  had  to  take 
rail  to  Wycombe,  and  walk  across  to  that  little  village  which  has 
been  for  centuries  a  sort  of  appanage  to  Burnham  House. 

I  had  very  little  interest  either  in  Miss  Hester  Burnham  or  in 
the  doings  that  were  to  celebrate  her  return.  I  remembered  her 
only  as  a  little  girl,  with  dark  hair  and  staring  eyes,  who  used  to 
ride  about  on  a  white  pony,  and  was  greatly  petted  by  the  farm- 
ers and  their  wives — indeed,  by  everybody.  Doubtless  Miss  Hes- 
ter was  now  a  fine  lady,  come  home  from  France  to  set  up  her 
state  in  the  great  old  house,  where  her  people  had  lived  for  centu- 
ries. Indeed,  so  little  did  I  think  of  the  whole  matter  that  I  foi-- 
got  that  Miss  Hester  could  scarcely  be  sixteen  years  of  age. 

So  it  was  that,  when  I  reached  Wycombe,  instead  of  walking 
straight  over  to  Burnham,  I  set  forth  on  a  ramble  across  the  long 
chalk  hills  and  through  the  dense  beech-woods  which  were  once 
so  familiar  to  me. 

How  well  I  knew  every  house  and  orchard  and  field,  as  the 
road  gradually  rose  and  brought  into  view  the  deep  and  pleasant 
valleys  that  were  now  so  deep  and  warm  !  Night  after  night,  ip 
my  poor  London  lodgings,  I  had  laid  with  open  eyes  and  dream^ 
ed  of  these  woods  and  hills  and  hollows:  and  lo !  here  they  were 


— not  as  I  had  iniai^'med  them — but  niuler  the  bewildering  glare 
of  the  spring  light. 

Yet  the  day  was  not  one  of  strong  sunshine.  There  was  a  thin, 
transparent  yellow  mist,  that  did  not  so  much  obscure  the  sunlight 
as  conceal  the  directness  of  its  rays ;  and  while  you  could  not  turn 
to  any  point  of  the  sky  and  say  the  sun  was  there,  you  felt  that 
it  was  all  around  you,  shining  in  the  intense  pellucid  green  of  the 
young  hawthorn  leaves,  and  causing  the  breaks  in  the  distant 
chalk-hills  to  gleam  like  silver.  Then  all  the  wonders  of  the 
spring  were  out — the  rich-colored  japonica  in  front  of  the  labor- 
ers' cottages,  the  white  masses  of  petals  on  the  great  pear-trees, 
the  big  flowers  of  the  cherries,  and  the  rose-tinted  scarcely  unfold- 
ed apple-blossom,  sprinkled  here  and  there  with  little  bunches  of 
woolly  leaves.  Here,  too,  were  all  the  spring  flowers  about  the 
hedges  and  banks ;  and  the  spring  freshness  and  brilliancy  upon 
the  young  leaves  of  the  chestnuts  and  the  elms  and  the  ash.  The 
limes  were  black  yet ;  the  tall  and  graceful  birch  had  only  a  tinge 
of  green  on  its  drooping  branches;  and  the  interminable  beech- 
woods — the  glorv  of  Buckinghamshire  in  the  time  when  thoy  grow 
red  and  orange  and  crimson — showed  as  yet  only  a  dull  purple, 
caught  from  the  ruddy  and  twisted  buds.  And  over  all  these 
things  brooded  the  warmth  of  that  pale  yellow  light — so  calm 
and  still  and  silent,  but  for  the  pearly  music  of  a  lark  that  was  lost 
in  it ;  and  the  woods,  also,  and  the  long  low  valleys,  seemed  to  be 
hushed  into  a  drowsy  silence,  broken  now  and  again  by  the  clear, 
strong  piping  of  a  thrush  in  one  of  the  blossom-laden  orchards. 
It  was  all  so  different  from  London. 

Through  these  beech-woods,  strewn  with  dead  leaves,  and  mat 
ted  with  brier  and  breckan,  1  joyously  went  until  I  issued  upon 
the  summit  of  the  hill,  upon  the  steep  side  of  which  is  cut  the 
great  white  cross  that  can  be  seen  all  the  way  from  Oxford.  The 
old  grand  picture  of  that  immense  intervening  plain  was  once 
more  before  me.  Princes  Risborough,  with  its  red-tiled  houses 
and  its  church,  lying  down  there  under  the  faint  blue  smoke  of 
the  \illage;  the  long  white  rt)ad  leading  on  to  IMcdlow;  the  com- 
fortable farmsteads  smothered  among  orchards;  then  the  great 
patchwork  of  fields  with  their  various  colors — the  red  and  brown 
fallow,  the  dark  green  of  the  young  clover,  the  fine  tint  of  the 
wheat,  hero  and  then;  already  yellowed  with  chariock  ;  the  sharp, 
black  lines  of  the  hedges  gradually  getting  closer  and  fainter  as 


MY    HOME.  19 

the  eye  rose  to  the  horizon,  and  there  becoming  a  confused  mass 
of  misty  streaks ;  on  the  right  the  remote  uplands,  with  their 
larch-plantations,  and  here  and  there  a  white  house  shining  in  the 
sun ;  down  on  the  left  the  contini  Ing  line  of  the  chalk  hills, 
rounded  and  smooth,  where  they  I  ecame  visible  from  among  the 
dusky  stretches  of  the  beech-woods ;  und  lar  on  in  front,  half  lost 
in  the  shimmer  of  light  along  tho  edge  of  the  sky,  the  pale  blue 
plain  of  Oxfordshire,  indeterminate  rnd  v;.gue. 

How  long  I  lay  on  the  shoulder  of  White-cross  Hill,  with  the 
dazzling  glare  of  the  concealed  sun  lying  warm  and  crimson  on 
my  shut  eyelids,  I  cannot  say.  I  was  outside  of  all  distressing 
conditions — absolutt;ly  free,  and  without  a  thought  for  anything 
or  anybody,  including  myself.  It  was  enougli  to  be  in  the  fresh 
and  beautiful  air,  to  be  alone,  to  be  able  to  dream.  And  it  seemed 
to  me,  as  I  lay  there,  that  there  were  fairies  hovering  over  me, 
and  that  the  warm  spring  air,  blowing  over  my  face,  was  only 
their  tickling  my  forehead  with  their  small  handkerchiefs.  Or 
was  it  with  spikes  of  feather-grass  ?  I  lay  and  pictured  their 
walking  around  me  in  all  sorts  of  picturesque  and  shining  cos- 
tumes—  the  small  gentlemen  with  helmets  of  acorn-cups,  and 
shields  made  out  of  the  shell  of  the  green  beetle  ;  the  small  ladies 
with  parasoh  formed  out  of  a  curved  rose-leaf,  and  bonnets  of 
white  larkspur.  Then,  somehow,  a  thought  of  \N' easel  intervened ; 
I  got  up  impatiently,  and  made  to  go  down  the  hill  and  get  back 
to  Burnham. 

I  then  found  that  a  pair  of  new  boots  I  had  put  on  that  morn- 
ing— assisted,  doubtless,  by  the  mad  jumping  and  hopping  of  my 
progress  to  the  station — had  severely  hurt  my  feet.  Indeed,  when 
I  reached  the  foot  of  White-cross  Hill,  I  found  it  impossible  to 
put  one  foot  to  the  ground,  so  intense  was  the  pain  which  the 
pressure  caused.  Under  the  circumstances,  I  took  the  only  course 
open  to  me — sat  down,  pulled  off  my  boots  and  stockings,  put 
the  latter  in  the  former,  and,  slinging  the  whole  over  my  shoul- 
der, prepared  to  walk  barefooted  until  I  should  near  Burnham. 
Perhaps  by  that  time  I  might  be  able  to  pull  my  boots  on  again ; 
if  not — and  the  chances  were  against  it — I  should  have  to  put  a 
bold  face  on  the  matter,  and  walk  with  absurdly  white  feet  up  to 
my  mother's  door. 

But,  as  I  yet  rested,  I  heard  a  pattering  of  horses'  hoofs,  and, 
looking  around,  saw  a  couple  of  riders  coming  along  the  white 


20  KILMENY. 

road.  The  glare  of  tlie  light  was  in  niv  oves ;  but  I  could  make 
out  that  the  one  was  a  young  girl,  the  other  a  youngish  gentle- 
man, though  considerably  older  than  she.  It  struck  me  at  the 
moment  that  very  likely  this  would  be  Miss  Burnham  ;  and  so  I 
sat  still,  that  I  might  see  her  well  as  she  passed.  Besides  there 
has  always  seemed  to  me  something  very  fine  and  stately  and 
beautiful  in  the  position  of  a  woman  (who  can  ride  at  all  decent- 
ly) on  horseback,  and  in  these  days  lady-riders  wore  long  skirts, 
which  greatly  added  to  the  effect  of  the!  uj  pearance.  So  they 
came  cantering  along  the  dusty  road  ;  and  just  before  they  reached 
me,  the  light  was  so  altered  that  I  could  dist^inctly  see  them. 

My  first  thought  was,  "  How  quickly  girls  grow  in  France !" 

My  second,  "  What  a  sweet  face !" 

Pale  it  was,  and  dark  (at  least  it  seemed  dark  in  shadow),  scarce- 
ly surrounded  by  loose  masses  of  brown  hair  that  the  wind  had 
blown  back  from  her  hat.  You  could  not  tell  what  the  features 
were,  for  the  wonderful  eyes  of  the  face  caught  you  and  kept  you 
there.  As  she  swept  past,  she  drove  a  single  glance  right  through 
me ;  and  I  thought  that  I  had  seen  a  vision  of  all  the  sweetness 
and  gracious  kindliness  of  womanhood  revealed  by  this  one  swift 
look.  Here,  at  least,  was  a  gentlewoman  in  nature,  one  who  was 
not  supercilious,  or  cursed  by  conventional  pride.  I  looked  after 
her,  and  I  said  to  myself,  "There,  now,  if  you  could  do  any  ser- 
vice to  one  such  as  she  is,  life  would  not  be  quite  worthless." 

Then  I  saw  her,  before  she  had  gone  twenty  yards,  pull  up  her 
horse.  Her  companion,  a  young  man  of  about  twenty-two,  fair- 
haired,  apparently  tall,  and  with  cold  gray  eyes,  followed  her 
example. 

She  said  something  to  liim — he  shrugged  his  shoulders — and, 
as  well  as  I  e<juld  hear,  said  he  had  no  coppers. 

"Give  me  silver,  then  !"  she  said,  with  a  sort  of  girlish  petu- 
lance; and  then  he  handed  something  to  her. 

She  wheeled  round  her  horse  and  rode  up  to  where  I  sat.  1 
could  not  understand  all  this.  Slu;  held  out  her  hand.  I  rose, 
expecting  lier  to  say  something.  She  still  held  out  her  hand,  and 
I,  reaching  uj)  mine,  received  into  it  a  half-crown.  Still  I  stood, 
stupefied,  wondering  what  the  beautiful  blue-gray  eyes,  under  those 
long  black  eyelashes,  meant;  and  tlirn,  before  I  had  recovered 
myself,  and  without  a  word,  she  turned  her  horse  again  and  rode 
away. 


MY    HOME.  21 

It  was  all  the  work  of  a  second ;  and  for  some  little  time  I  wa? 
too  bewildered  to  know  wliat  had  occurred.  At  last,  when  I  saw 
the  white  half-crown  lie  in  my  hand,  a  sensation  which  I  shall 
never  forp"et  came  over  me — a  sensation  of  consuming,  intolerable 
shame.  This  was  what  the  kindliness  of  her  eyes  meant,  that  I 
was  a  begfar  r.nd  she  pitied  me.  I  felt  my  face  grow  white  and 
cold,  and  then  burn  red  with  confusion  and  anger.  To  have  alms 
thrown  to  me  by  the  wayside,  to  be  treated  as  a  common  beggar 
— the  very  thought  of  it  seemed  to  crush  me  with  a  deadening, 
burning  weight,  that  was  scarcely  relieved  by  wild  anticipations 
of  revenge.  Was  not  my  mother  a  gentlewoman,  too  ;  although 
only  the  daughter  of  a  poor  clergyman,  when  my  father,  then  a 
young  gardener,  got  so  madly  in  love  with  her  that  even  his  no- 
tions of  duty  were  unable  to  prevent  his  running  away  with  her  ? 
And  was  not  his  careful  and  respectful  behavior  to  her — now  that 
they  had  been  niarned  something  like  eighteen  years — a  wonder 
to  the  neighbors,  and  a  greater  wonder  to  my  mother's  old  friends, 
who  had  prophesied  the  usual  consequences  of  her  folly  ?  Nay, 
had  not  the  Burnhams  been  always  tenderly  considerate  to  my 
mother,  though  she  was  only  the  wife  of  their  head  keeper ;  and 
who  was  it  that  taught  this  very  Miss  Hester  the  little  accom- 
plishments of  a  gentlewoman  before  she  went  to  her  Parisian 
schools  ?  These  things,  and  otliers,  I  thouglit  over ;  but  the  ac- 
cursed white  half-crown  lay  out  in  the  middle  of  the  road,  whither 
it  had  rolled  after  I  flung  it  violently  to  the  ground ;  and  the 
mere  sight  of  it  seemed  to  make  my  eyes  burn. 

And  yet  she  had  a  kindly  face.  I  could  recall  the  very  look 
with  which  she  had  regarded  me ;  and  somehow  it  took  me  back 
to  old  times.  But  to  receive  alms  from  her!  I  sat  down  by  the 
wayside  once  more,  and  buried  my  face  in  my  hands,  and  burst 
into  bitter  tears,  the  bitterest  I  have  ever  shed. 


22  KILMBNV. 


CHAPTER  III. 

MY     UNCLE     JOB. 

The  broad  gray  front  of  Burnham  House  has  stood  tljcse 
couple  of  hundred  years  and  more  at  the  head  of  one  of  the  finest 
avenues  in  England — an  avenue  about  a  mile  and  a  half  in  length, 
and  at  least  three  hundred  yards  broad,  leading  up  from  the  val- 
ley in  a  straight  line  to  the  building  on  the  top  of  the  hill.  Many 
a  goodly  company  has  cantered  up  and  down  that  splendid  ride, 
with  its  dense,  mossy,  close  green  turf,  its  patches  of  furze  and 
broom  and  brcckan.  On  either  side  stands  a  row  of  magnificent 
Spanish  chestnuts  ;  on  the  one  hand  skirting  the  woods  that  slope 
down  to  the  Amersham  road,  on  the  other  forming  the  boundary- 
line  of  Burnham  Park.  The  House  itself,  fronting  this  spacious 
avenue,  commands  the  broad  valley  that  stretches  for  miles  east- 
ward ;  and  from  almost  any  point  around  you  can  see  from  afar 
the  gray  frontage  of  the  old  building,  gleaming  like  gold  in  the 
sunsliine,  high  up  there  among  the  trees.  Just  outside  what  is 
called  the  "ladies'  garden"  stands  the  little  old  church,  whose 
walls  are  covered  with  marble  memorials  of  the  Burnhams ;  and 
from  thence  a  narrow  road,  dividing  the  park,  loads  across  the 
summit  of  the  hill  to  Burnham  village  and  Burnham  Common. 
The  place,  with  all  its  historical  associations  of  the  times  of  the 
Civil  War,  is  little  known  by  Englishmen ;  but  it  is  familiar  to 
Americans,  and  Frenchmen  visit  it,  and  Germans  write  about  it ; 
and  in  St.  Petersburg  you  can  buy  photographs  of  Burnham  and 
Burnham  Church,  and  of  the  monumental  stone  erected  to  John 
Burnham,  the  friend  and  colleague  of  Cromwell. 

Before  coming  near  Burnham,  I  cooled  my  feet  in  a  small 
stream  that  runs  along  the  valley,  and  managed  to  pull  on  my 
boots  again.  The  pain  of  walking  was  intense ;  but  I  did  not 
mind  it  so  much  now.  When  I  got  to  the  lodge,  I  went  in  and 
borrowed  a  spade  from  the  lodge-keeper. 

"  Why,  I  hain't  a  wolf,  Mahster  Tves,"  said  he;  "you  needn't 
speak  to  a  mahn  as  if  he  wur  a  wolf," 


MY    UNCLE    JOB.  23 

"  I  didn't  mean  to  be  uncivil,"  I  said. 

"  It  war  only  my  fun,"  he  said,  bringing  the  spade ;  "  but  you 
do  look  a  bit  vexed  and  hout  j   sorts." 

That  I  might  not  be  seen  by  any  of  the  people  who  were  now 
at  the  House,  I  passed  into  the  wood  by  the  side  of  the  avenue, 
and  made  my  way  through  tlie  thick  undergrowth  to  r.  deep  cleft 
or  dell  in  which  we  children,  who  had  the  entree  to  the  woods  of 
Burnham,  used  to  play.  We  had  had  a  notion  of  getting  up 
some  kind  of  grotto  there,  and  a  large  number  of  big  stones  were 
still  strewn  about  the  edge  of  the  wooded  pit.  The  biggest  of 
these  I  placed  on  my  shoulder ;  and  then  made  my  way  down 
through  the  tangled  brier  and  bushes  to  the  bottom  of  the  dell. 
There  I  dug  a  hole  about  a  foot  square  and  a  foot  deep,  T  flung 
the  half-crown  into  the  hole — I  think  I  struck  at  it  with  the  spade 
in  impotent  rage — and,  covering  it  up,  put  the  big  stone  over  the 
place. 

"  That  is  the  first  alms  I  ever  had  offered  me,"  I  said  aloud — 
and  my  voice  had  a  strange  sound  in  the  dell — "  and  that  is  what 
I  did  with  it." 

I  took  the  spade  back  to  the  lodge-keeper. 

"  Why,  Master  Ted,"  said  he,  "  you  look  as  if  you'd  gone  and 
buried  your  sour  looks.  You  be  younger  and  brighter  by  a  dozen 
years  than  you  wur  when  you  axed  me  for  the  spaad.  And  it's 
a  good  spaad,  too." 

"  It's  a  capital  spade,"  I  said.  "  Did  Miss  Burnham  pass  up  to 
the  House  lately  ?" 

"  Yaas,  she  did." 

"  On  horseback,  with  some  one  with  her  3" 

"Yaas." 

"Who  was  he?" 

"That  be  a  son  o'  Colonel  Burnham's — Mr.  Alfred — and  he  be 
a  divvle  to  curse  and  swear,  he  be." 

"  I  suppose  he  means  to  marry  Miss  Burnham  ?" 

"  Lor'  bless  ye,  there  wun't  be  thoughts  o'  marryin'  in  her  'ed 
for  yurs  yet.  And  when  she  do  marry  she'll  marry  a  properer 
mahn  than  Hm.  I  bain't  much  of  a  weatherwise  mysel',  but  I 
doant  think  much  o'  that  ere  'errin'-gutted  young  feller.  He's 
bin  to  college,  I  reckon,  and  learnt  to  play  cahrds,  and  swear  at  ye 
as  if  ye  wur  a  dead  stoat." 

I  saw  that  old  Joshua  Tubb  knew  very  little  about  Mr.  Alfred 


24  KILMENY. 

Biirnham,  hut  that  he  was.  inclined  to  guess  the  worst,  probably 
by  reason  of  his  having  suffered  a  little  of  the  young  gentleman's 
strong  language. 

"  He's  living  up  at  the  House,  I  suppose  ?" 

*'  Yaas,  and  his  father,  and  lots  mower  on  'em.  The  old 
plaace  begins  to  look  live-like  now." 

I  went  up  by  the  side  of  the  avenue  to  cross  over  to  Burnham, 
keeping  out  of  the  way  of  the  House.  It  seemed  to  me  just  then 
that  all  the  hateful  influences  I  feared  and  loathed  were  within 
that  gaunt  gray  building ;  and  that  it  also  held  the  first  human 
being  who  had  ever  thought  so  meanly  of  me  as  to  make  me  a 
beggar.  If  you  consider  that  it  was  at  the  very  moment  when  I 
was  rejoicing  in  my  freedom  from  that  sense  of  constraint  and 
inferiority  which  the  town  pressed  down  upon  me  that  she  ap- 
peared, and  again  brought  home  to  me  the  immeasurable  distance 
that  lay  between  my  insignificance  and  helplessness  and  the  beau- 
tiful independence  and  strength  and  power  of  the  rich  and  love- 
ly, you  will  understand  how  I  felt  towards  her.  I  had  begun  to 
forget  what  I  was :  she  came,  and  seemed  to  say — 

"  You  have  no  right  to  rejoice  in  the  free  air  and  the  light. 
You  must  not  imagine  yourself  equal  with  other  people,  even  by 
forgetting  their  existence." 

When  I  reached  the  smal\  cottage,  fronting  Burnham  Com- 
mon, in  which  I  was  born,  I  found  my  mother  training  some 
creeper  up  the  outside  wall  around  the  window  ;  while  my  father 
stood  by,  waiting  upon  her  and  assisting  her  as  he  could.  They 
were  very  unlike — he  a  tall,  brown,  sun-tanned  keeper,  with  a  hook 
nose,  gray  eyes,  scant  whiskers,  and  ruddy  hair;  she  a  small,  ten- 
der, black-eyed  woman,  who  had  at  one  time  been  very  good- 
looking,  and  who  even  now  was  pretty  and  neat  and  engaging. 
This  little,  sensitive  woman,  who  never  spoke  a  harsh  word  to 
anybody,  who  could  not  even  scold  an  unruly  dog,  had  this  big 
man  her  absolute  slave.  I  think  he  was  fonder  of  her  then  than 
when  he  persuaded  her  to  run  away  from  her  father's  liome  with 
him.  Naturally,  he  was  rather  overbearing  in  his  manner — at  least 
he  was  extremely  practical  in  his  aims,  very  plain-spoken,  and  in- 
clined to  regard  everybody  who  did  not  agree  with  him  as  more 
or  less  of  a  fool ;  and  yet  with  her  you  could  see  that  he  was  al- 
most studiously  courteous  and  gentle  and  tender.  Even  his  man- 
ner towards  myself  I  attributed  in  part  to  the  notion  he  had  some- 


MY    UNCLE    JOB.  25 

how  got  of  my  mother  and  myself  being  of  a  different  race  from 
his  own — or  being  somehow  superior  to  the  people  round  about. 
It  was  this  feeling,  I  imagine,  that  induced  him  to  send  me  to 
London,  when  the  situation  in  Weasel's  place  was  offered,  rather 
than  allow  me  to  grow  up  to  the  ordinary  routine  of  farm  work. 
After  the  customary  greetings  and  inquiries,  I  went  inside  to 
get  a  pair  of  slippers,  and  sat  down  in  our  little  front  room,  which 
looked  out  on  a  bit  of  garden  and  on  the  common.  By  this  time 
the  sunlight  had  so  far  dispersed  the  faint  swathes  of  mist  as  to 
show  along  the  sky  a  strong  glow  of  pale  gold,  streaked  across 
with  bands  of  cirrus  clouds,  which  gleamed  white  and  silvery  in 
the  warm  yellow  light.  Buridiam  village  is  very  pretty  and  pict- 
uresque in  its  high-lying  position ;  its  few  scattered  cottages  and 
gardens  fronting  the  undulations  of  the  furze-covered  common, 
and  looking  towards  a  long  stretch  of  woodland  beyond,  which 
encloses  the  small  colony  and  shelters  it  from  the  wind.  I  was 
gazing  out  from  the  shadow  of  the  room  upon  this  secluded  little 
place — so  warm  and  silent  under  the  heat  and  light — and  was  re- 
lapsing into  the  old  feeling  of  dreamy  contentment,  when  a  sud- 
den apparition  awoke  the  bitterness  and  shame  I  had  experienced 
in  the  morning.  Miss  Hester  Burnham  walked  up  to  the  little 
green  gate,  and  entered  our  front  garden.  She  came  forward, 
with  the  sunlight  and  a  smile  on  her  face,  to  shake  hands  with 
my  mother ;  and,  but  for  the  difference  in  dress,  I  think  you  could 
have  taken  them  for  mother  and  daughter.  I  was  too  exasperated 
and  ashamed  to  pay  attention  to  such  things ;  but  I  can  look 
back  and  see  that  at  this  moment,  standing  in  the  sunlight  of  the 
garden,  she  must  have  been  exceedingly  pretty.  The  slight  and 
girlish  figure  was  small  and  delicate,  exquisitely  proportioned,  and 
gracious  and  graceful  in  every  motion.  Her  eyes  seemed  to  be 
darker  than  my  mother's  eyes ;  but  they  were  not.  They  were 
of  a  soft  grayish  blue,  quiet  and  tender  in  expression ;  but  what 
made  them  dark  in  appearance  was  the  long  and  almost  black 
eyelashes  which  deepened  their  meaning,  and  added  singularly  to 
the  beauty  of  her  profile.  Then  her  eyebrows  were  high,  finely 
curved,  and  black ;  and  a  profusion  of  dark  hair  fell  about  the 
rather  pale  face,  and  down  on  the  white  small  neck  and  the  deli- 
cate small  shoulders.  As  for  her  features — you  could  not  see 
them  for  looking  at  her  eyes.  They  may  have  been  regular,  ir- 
regular— anything :   all  you  could  distinctly  say  was  that  there 


26  KILMENY. 

appeared  a  singular  light  and  life  about  them,  with  an  occa- 
sional touch  of  gravity  which  was  beyond  the  girl's  years.  The 
eyes  seemed  to  have  too  much  sympathy  in  them  for  one  so 
young ;  and  yet  in  their  wise  truthfulness  you  could  see  that  there 
was  no  trace  of  aflEected  interest.  I  can  remember  how  she  looked 
into  my  mother's  face,  with  those  tender,  thoughtful,  and  beauti- 
ful eyes.  I  can  remember,  too,  that  she  was  dressed  very  neatly 
— in  a  tight-fitting,  slate-gray  costume,  that  had  lines  of  white 
about  it,  and  just  a  touch  of  scarlet  ribbon  near  the  neck.  She 
wore  a  small  gray  hat  with  a  single  gleaming  red  feather  in  it;  I 
think  she  had  a  riding-whip  in  her  hand ;  and  she  had  a  sprig  of 
crimson  heath  in  her  bosom. 

"  Mrs.  Ives,"  she  said — and  her  voice  had  the  soft,  contralto 
mellowness  that  made  my  mother's  voice  so  tender  and  pleasant 
— "  I  must  trouble  you  again  ;  I  really  think  you  must  let  mc 
coax  you  to  live  at  the  House  altogether.  I  very,  very  much 
want  you  to  come  now  and  help  me  among  all  those  tiresome 
people.     Can  you  come  at  once  ?" 

"  Certainly,  Miss  Hester." 

"  Then  I  suppose  I  must  go  in  and  wait  until  you're  ready  ?" 
she  said,  with  a  sort  of  girlish  impatience  that  made  my  mother 
smile. 

"  No,  Miss  Hester,  you  need  not  wait ;  I  will  be  over  at  the 
House  in  a  few  minutes." 

"  Then  I  ivill  wait.  You  sec  how  you  Lave  spoiled  mc  with 
your  kindness ;  and  so — and  so — " 

I  heard  her  come  into  the  passage ;  and  I  rose. 

"  My  son  is  within,"  said  my  mother. 

"  Oh,  that's  Ted,"  I  heard  her  say,  "  who  used  to  be  my  great 
friend,  and  my  champion  when  I  got  into  trouble  with  old  Joshua. 
Is  he  in  here?" 

The  door  was  opened,  and  she  advanced  a  single  step.  I  .saw 
the  peculiar,  frightened  glance  she  directed  towards  me :  then 
her  face  grew  scarlet,  and  for  a  moment  she  stood  in  direful  con- 
fusion. For  myself,  I  said  nothing  and  did  nothing  ;  but  my 
blood  was  up  in  rebellion,  I  knew. 

Then,  with  a  wonderful  graciousncss  and  the  frankest  of  smiles 
— I  could  not  help  admiring  the  ease  with  which  her  fashionable 
education  enabled  her  to  extricate  herself  from  this  embarras.s- 
ment — she  came  forward,  and  held  out  her  hand,  and  said — 


MY    UNCLE    JOB.  27 

"  May  I  beg  you  to  forgive  me  ?" 

I  said,  coldly  enough  perhaps — 

"  I  have  nothing  to  forgive." 

Her  eyes  met  mine  for  a  moment ;  and  I  knew  that  her  wom- 
an's wit — wonderfully  ingenious  even  in  a  girl  like  that — was 
wrestling  with  all  the  circumstances  of  the  case.  Then  (all  this  had 
happened  in  a  moment,  and  her  hand  was  still  extended)  she  said 
in  a  low  voice  that  was  intended  not  to  let  my  mother  hear — 

"  I  will  take  it  back,  and  then  I  will  ask  you  to  forgive  me.  It 
was  a  mistake — I  am  very,  very  sorry." 

Then  it  flashed  upon  me  that  I  could  not  give  her  back  that 
accursed  piece  of  money  which  was  lying  buried  down  in  the  dell ; 
and  I  knew  she  would  fancy  that  I  had  accepted  the  alms — that 
I  had  already  spent  the  money.  The  horror  and  agony  of  that 
one  moment  was  worse  than  all  that  had  gone  before.  If  there 
was  one  thing  I  was  proud  of  it  was  my  pride.  It  was  my  only 
possession  :  I  had  need  to  preserve  it.  And  now  the  only  crea- 
ture belonging  to  those  gifted  people  who  held  the  world  in  their 
hand  who  had  ever  descended  so  far  as  to  speak  to  me  (and  in 
the  old  days  to  be  a  sort  of  patronizing  little  friend  to  me)  had 
ojffered  me  alms,  and  she  would  imagine  that  I  had  sold  my  birth- 
right of  independence  for  this  wretched  bit  of  money, 

"  I — I  have  not  got  it — I  cannot  give  it  to  you,"  I  stammered ; 
and  then,  half  conscious  of  the  wonder  and  astonishment  of  her 
eyes,  I  went  past  her,  and  out  of  the  room,  and  out  of  the  house. 

I  went  out  into  the  cool  air  of  the  afternoon,  feeling  that  I  had 
the  brand  of  Cain  on  my  forehea'd.  Was  I  not  a  convicted  pau- 
per ?  I  walked  away  from  Burnham,  over  the  park,  into  the  strip 
of  wood  by  the  avenue,  and  down  into  that  dell.  The  stone  was 
still  there.  My  first  impulse  was  to  dig  up  the  half-crown  again, 
and  take  it  to  her,  and  throw  it  at  her  feet ;  but  how  could  I 
make  the  explanation  ?  No  ;  it  should  remain  there,  and  she 
might  think  of  it  all  just  as  she  liked. 

At  that  moment  I  heard  voices  above — of  two  men  who  were 
walking  along  the  avenue.  I  heard  some  snatch  of  conversation 
like  this : 

— "  Not  much,  certainly.  But  there  is  the  House  and  grounds 
— a  fortune  in  themselves." 

"  You  would  not  sell  them  ?" 

-'  I  would,  if  I  had  the  chance." 


28  KILMENY. 

"  Then,  I  suppose,  you'd  send  that  poor  little  girl  adrift,  and 
spend  her  money  on  Chira  Bcauchanip.  AVcll,  Alfred,  you  have 
got  a  wonderful  decision  about  you,  to  -/ut  it  mildly." 

"Clara  is  a  devilish  tine  girl ;  though  she  ought  to  have  taken 
some  other  name  than  Beauehamp  when  she  started  on  her  career. 
As  for  my  cousin  Hester,  you  know  I  shall  be  compelled  to  get 
money  somewhere,  and  she  has  got  such  a  d — d  smooth  temper, 
she  would  stand  anything — " 

That  was  all  I  heard ;  but  it  was  enough  to  suggest  many 
things.  And  the  most  probable  theory  of  the  aim  of  this  con 
versation  which  I  was  forced  to  hear  was  so  mean  and  repulsive 
and  depraved  that,  at  the  time,  it  delighted  me.  These  grand 
people,  then,  were  occasionally  in  straits  like  others.  They  were 
not  immaculate,  either.  They  had  their  meannesses  —  perhaps 
more  absolutely  gross  and  mean  than  was  possible  with  lesser  peo- 
ple ill  lesser  circumstances.  To  be  looked  upon  as  a  beggar  was 
bad  enough  ;  but  there  were  more  des[)icable  beings  in  the  world 
than  beggars. 

When  I  got  out  of  the  dell,  and  looked  u|)  the  avenue,  I  saw 
that  one  of  tlie  two  men  who  had  been  speaking  was  the  gentle- 
man w  ho  had  been  riding  with  Miss  Hester  in  the  morning.  Then 
I  turned  my  back  upon  Huridiam  House,  and  hoped  that  I  might 
never  see  it  again. 

1  walked  over  to  my  Uncle  Job's  farm — some  two  miles  off; 
and  there  I  spent  the  evening  and  the  whole  of  the  next  day. 
This  Uncle  Job  was  my  father's  elder  brother — an  old  bachelor 
who  had,  l»y  rigid  parsimojiy,  worked  his  way  up  to  the  tenanting 
of  a  farm  of  over  two  hundred  acres.  Many  things  contriltutcd 
to  make  him  a  sort  of  outcast  from  among  his  neighbors.  To 
begin  with,  he  went  about  in  a  frightfully  unshaven  and  ragged 
condition,  with  an  old,  smashed,  and  sun-tanned  hat,  a  wisp  of 
dirty  black  silk  tied  around  his  neck,  no  collar,  an  old  and  shabby 
coat,  and  a  pair  of  tight  and  dirty  corduroy  breeches;  while  his 
unwashed  and  unshaven  face  was  ornamented  with  a  curiously 
large  gray  moustache,  which  was  ordinarily  besprinkled  with  snuff. 
He  smoked  a  short  clay  pipe,  and  puffed  cut  all  manner  of  so- 
cialist and  revolutionary  speeches  along  with  the  smoke.  Jle 
never  went  to  church.  Hi'  had  l)een  the  friend  of  a  (iod-forgot- 
ten  Major  who  used  to  dwell  in  a  lonely  house  near  Crutchett's 
(^o|)piee,  ;ind  wlio  was  sup|ioscd  to  be  a  monster  of  wickedness, 


MY    UNCLE    JOB.  2.9 

and  to  have  murdered  his  wife.  It  was  found  at  his  death  that 
the  Major  had  provided  that  he  should  be  buried  iu  the  neighbor- 
ing wood,  instead  of  in  consecrated  ground :  was  not  this  suffi- 
cient proof  that  the  devil  was  sure  of  his  prey  ?  My  Uncle  Job 
was  left  as  perpetual  guardian  of  the  Major's  house  ;  and  that  had 
now  fallen  pretty  much  into  ruin,  because,  as  everybody  knew  it 
was  haunted,  nobody  would  live  in  it.  The  experiment  was  tried 
once,  and  the  people  were  glad  to  get  away.  In  the  dark  of  an 
evening  the  noise  of  carriage-wheels  was  often  heard  without — 
on  the  carriage-drive  and  at  the  hall-door :  when  the  occupants  of 
the  house  went  to  the  window  nothing  was  visible.  Loud  laugh- 
ter, coming  fronj  the  neighboring  wood,  used  to  startle  the  peo- 
ple at  dead  of  night ;  when  they  opened  a  door  suddenly,  a  sort 
of  scuffle  was  heard,  and  sometimes  the  faint  echo  of  a  laugh  a 
minute  afterwards.  But  the  climax  of  these  visitations  was  that 
the  owner  of  the  house,  going  home  one  night,  distinctly  saw  a 
gray  dog-cart,  with  a  white  horse,  standing  opposite  his  door- 
steps. He  went  forward :  as  he  approached  it  faded  away,  and 
he  walked  right  through  it.  That  same  night  no  one  in  the  house 
could  sleep  for  the  shrieks  of  laughter  heard  all  around  the  place. 
Next  morning  the  man  left,  with  all  his  family,  and  nobody  had 
ventured  to  sleep  in  the  liouse  since. 

Uncle  Job  w5s  very  unwilling  to  speak  of  these  matters.  He 
growled  in  his  bitter  way  at  the  superstition  and  folly  of  the  peo- 
ple around ;  but  he  would  never  say  distinctly  what  the  occupant 
of  the  Major's  house  had  told  him  when  he  left. 

"  Darn  the  fools,"  he  used  to  say,  sitting  at  his  fire  of  a  night, 
with  the  small  black  pipe  in  his  mouth,  "  they'd  believe  anything 
if  the  pahrson  'ud  only  tell  it  them.  Eut  the  pahrsons  are  too  lazy 
nowadays  to  invent  new  stories — they  stick  to  the  hold  ones,  Ted. 
They  keep  to  the  hold  stories,  and  they've  shot  the  dower  agin 
the  new  ones.  They  be  rare  fond  o'  tellin'  ye  o'  the  plagues  o' 
Egypt;  but  what  I  says  is,  Why  didn't  Moses  try  the  Egyptians 
wi'  a  plague  of  pahrsons  ? — that's  w  hat  I  say.  And  that's  a  rare 
good  un'  too,  about  the  sun  standin'  still.  Bah !  It's  my  opin- 
ion that  if  the  sun  stood  still,  it  was  because  it  was  so  darned 
astonished  at  Joshua's  cheek  in  askin'  it." 

I  think  there  can  be  no  doubt  about  my  Uncle  Job  having  been 
a  frightful  old  ruffian.  But  the  cool  way  in  which  he  disposed 
of  his  respectable  neighbors,  and  maintained  the  independence  of 


30  KILMENY. 

bis  position,  was  fine  in  its  way.  I  walked  over  his  farm  the  next 
morning  with  him.  Job  had  his  small  pipe  in  his  mouth,  and 
his  hat  drawn  over  his  furehead  to  shelter  his  eyes  from  the  sun- 
light. 

"  The  pahrson  doan't  come  to  my  shop,"  he  said ;  "  I  doan't 
go  to  his.  I  be  as  good  a  mahn  as  he — I  be.  No,  I  doan't  say 
as  goin'  to  church  is  a  bahd  thing,  but  there's  a  rare  lot  o'  hypo- 
crites as  goes,  and  what  I  say  is  as  it's  better  not  to  go  unless  you 
can  hact  up  to  it — that's  what  I  saay.  They  go  to  church,  and  talk 
o'  the  blessin'  o'  bein'  poor,  and  try  to  make  one  another  believe 
as  they  believes  it ;  but  it's  my  opinion  as  bein'  rich  isn't  so  much 
of  a  curse  arter  all ;  and  I  doan't  see  as  they  throw  any  o'  their 
money  into  the  sea,  or  much  of  it  into  the  poor-box,  for  the  mat- 
ter o'  that.  Yes,  they  talk  o'  being  poor,  and  yet  they  want  to 
farm  their  two  thousand  and  their  three  thousand  acres,  and  keep 
a  lot  o'  families  starvin'  as  ain't  got  a  bit  o'  land  to  work  on.  It's 
one  mahn  eatin'  up  the  livin's  o'  eight  or  ten — that's  what  it  is, 
Mahster  Ted.  What  I  say  is,  every  mahn  should  ha'  an  acre — a 
mahn  an  acre — then  there  'ud  be  no  starvation  or  Unions." 

"  Why  do  you  farm  two  hundred  acres  yourself,  Uncle  Job  ?" 
said  I. 

"  W^hat  'ud  be  the  use  o'  me  givin'  up  my  patch  o'  ground  ? 
what  could  a  mahn  get  wi'  his  spade  out  o'  an  acre  o'  this  darned 
stuff  ?  Now,  lookee  there,  Mahster  Ted  —  look  at  that  divvelish 
little  dell  as  I  ploughed  for  the  first  time  last  spring." 

We  were  now  on  the  brow  of  a  hill,  above  the  long  valley  in 
which  the  straggling  village  of  Misseiiden,  with  its  red  brick 
houses  and  its  pale  blue  smoke,  lay  under  the  early  morning  sun- 
shine. And  right  in  front  of  us,  at  the  other  end  of  the  valley, 
rose  the  great  avenue  that  led  up  to  Burnham,  and  the  House 
stood  soft  and  shadowy  there  among  the  blue  mist  of  the  trees, 
with  a  flush  of  pale  yellow  across  its  frontage,  caught  from  the 
glow  of  the  east.  Job  j)aused  on  the  edge  of  a  deep  hollow  at 
one  end  of  this  field,  and  blinked  at  the  sunshine,  and  puffed  his 
pipe,  and  said — 

"  As  I  was  a  plougliin'  thear,  I  turned  over  cannon-bullets  as 
was  fired  all  across  that  valley  from  Burnliam  House  by  Holiver 
Cromwell." 

I  asked  Job  how  he  knew  that  the  cannon-balls  had  belonged  to 
Cromwell,  but  I  was  aware  that  the  people  living  in  this  district 


MY    UNCLE    JOB.  31 

attribute  all  historical  relics  to  the  time  of  the  Civil  War.  There 
seems  to  have  been  in  history  an  absolute  blank,  so  far  as  the 
Missenden  valley  is  concerned,  between  that  time  and  this ;  the 
people  speak  of  1640-50  as  of  yesterday,  and  there  is  scarcely  a 
stone  or  tree  in  the  parish  that  has  not  somehow  been  mixed  up 
in  the  great  struggle  between  the  King  and  the  Commons. 

"  How  do  I  know  ?"  said  my  uncle.  "  Who  ever  came  into  this 
part  of  the  world  to  fire  bullets  except  him  ?  Ah !  those  wur 
grand  times,  when  gentlemen  knew  what  wur  expected  of  gentle- 
men, and  went  out  and  fought  for  the  poor  people  as  was  being 
taxed.  They're  talkin'  in  the  newspapers,  as  I  hear,  o'  spirit- 
rappin',  and  all  that  darned  stufiE,  and  it's  my  opinion  that  the 
pahrsons  are  only  hiimbuggin'  us  about  the  joy  o'  goin'  to  'eaven, 
if  we're  to  be  sent  to  attend  on  a  lot  o'  darned  old  women,  and 
play  accordions  for  them.  But  what  I  say  is,  if  it  wur  possible 
for  ghosts  to  come  back,  what  d'ye  think,  Mahster  Ted,  'ud  Ire- 
ton  and  Cromwell  and  Blake  and  Burnham  —  to  say  nothing  o' 
them  as  wur  on  the  other  side — think  of  our  fine  gentlemen  now, 
ruinin'  themselves  and  their  families  wi'  horse-racin',  fightin'  in 
theatres,  gamblin'  wi'  blasted  furreigners  in  Germany,  and  the 
like  ?  Look  at  the  House  there — isn't  it  as  fine  a  house  as  any  in 
England?  And  them  as  has  had  it  —  bah!  —  and  him  as  is  goin' 
to  have  it — " 

"Who  is  that?"  I  asked. 

"  Why,  I  hain't  a  prophet,  be  I,  when  I  say  as  I  know  Mahster 
Alfred  Burnham  ain't  got  a  darned  farthin',  and  that  his  father 
has  plenty  to  get  beaver*  for,  let  alone  him  ;  and  when  I  sees  him 
ridin'  about  day  arter  day  with  Miss  Hester,  and  looking  so  par- 
ticlar  attentive,  I  don't  need  to  be  Eliza  —  Elijah  I  mean  —  to  say 
as  there's  somethin'  hup.  Well,  she  ain't  got  much  money  either, 
as  I  can  hear  on ;  but  he'll  get  a  rare  good  sum  for  the  old  'Ouse. 
I  dunnow  if  he  can  sell  the  church,  too.  It  wur  a  pity  if  he 
couldn't  make  some  use  o'  them  vallyble  bits  o'  marble  as  have  all 
the  Burnhams'  names  on  'em." 

"  You  don't  think  he  would  sell  these,  do  you  ?"  I  asked. 

But  at  this  moment  the  bell  of  Missenden  church — high  up  on 
the  hill  there,  above  the  gray  old  abbey  and  the  small  river  and 
the  broad  meadows — began  to  toll. 

*'  Darn  them  bells  !"  said  Uncle  Job,  turning  away  testily,  **  let's 
*  Beaver — food. 


32  KILMENV. 

go  around  to  the  other  side  of  the  hill,  and  get  out  of  the  way 
o'  their  noise.  I  hate  'em.  They  'mind  me  of  a  funeral ;  and 
they  say  to  me  as  the  people  Avho  go  to  church  are  so  darned  re- 
siK'ctable  and  solemn  and  proper ;  and  they  tell  me  what  yur  re- 
spectable people  think  of  me — and  that  is  that  I  am  a  tlamin'  old 
cuss,  who  ought  to  go  and  bury  myself,  because  1  doan't  shine  my 
boots,  and  go  and  snivvle  in  a  church  pew,  and  promise  to  obey 
all  the  ten  commahndments,  and  ten  mower,  if  Providence  '11  only 
make  me  better  off  than  my  neighbors." 

I  don't  think  old  Job  Ives  was  a  very  profitable  companion,  as 
lie  went  about  on  a  quiet  Sunday  morning,  down  in  this  Bucking- 
hamshire vale,  railing  and  cursing  against  his  kind.  However,  I 
hated  Burnham,  and  I  remained  at  my  uncle's  farm  all  day,  creep- 
ing over  to  bid  good-bye  to  my  father  and  mother  after  dusk, 
when  no  one  from  Burnham  House  could  see. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

MY    FKIEND. 

I  RETURNED  t<i  London,  and  to  Weasel's  shoji,  with  a  great 
purpose  in  my  heart.  I  was  determined  to  be  Correggio,  or  Isaac 
Newton,  or  Edmund  Kean — anybody  of  such  transcendent  genius 
as  should  make  the  world  pause  and  wonder.  It  was  not  alone 
the  small  world  of  Burnham  that  I  wished  to  coiKpier,  but  that 
greater  world  which  had  cast  me  down  and  made  a  beggar  of  me. 
I  should  be  even  with  it ;  and,  if  I  spent  my  life  in  the  struggle, 
would  in  the  end  force  it  to  recognize  in  me  its  equal.  What 
were  the  means?  An  astounding  audacity,  assumed  for  tlie  pur- 
pose; backed  by  a  resolution  to  explore  all  the  various  branches 
of  human  knowledge.  There  was  nothing  I  did  not  attempt. 
Greek  was  my  first  eifort ;  though  I  begin  to  perceive  now  that 
life  is  not  long  enough  to  let  a  man  learn  Greek.  French,  and  a 
little  (Tcrman,  my  mother  had  taught  me  ;  and,  while  I  still  coached 
myself  up  in  these  languages,  I  took  to  the  indiscriminate  study 
of  everything.  I  had  no  master  or  instriK'tor  or  guide.  I  gath- 
ered up  pi-nce,  and  Ixjught  second-hand  books  in  Holborn.  I 
began  t'>  faney  niyseif  learned  in  hydraulics,  ami  could  turn  yoli 


MY    FRIEND.  33 

off  at  a  moment's  notice  the  proper  angle  for  a  sluice-gate.  I 
regarded  myself  as  profound  in  chemistry  ;  and  only  wanted  some 
apparatus  to  increase  considerably  the  list  of  non-metallic  ele- 
ments. I  studied  astronomy ;  and  knew  that,  with  the  requisite 
time  and  instruments,  I  should  have  discovered  Neptune.  I  stud- 
ied botany  (theoretically,  alas !),  and  had  my  own  notions  about 
the  protoplasmic  movement  and  origin  of  life.  For  amusement, 
I  drew,  and  dabbled  in  water-colors.  I  made  the  absurdest  efforts 
to  excel  in  all  these  things,  that  I  might  wipe  out,  some  day  or 
other,  the  cruel  stain  that  Hester  Burnham's  silver  coin  had  left 
upon  my  hand. 

I  pass  over  all  this  foolish  time,  and  arrive  at  a  period  when  a 
little  further  knowledge  had  cooled  my  hopes,  if  not  my  impa- 
tience and  desire.  My  great  and  faithful  friend,  now  as  then,  was 
an  artist  to  whom  I  had  occasionally  to  carry  home  picture-frames. 
He  and  I  somehow  became  acquainted :  he  took  a  sort  of  fancy 
to  me ;  and  I  used  to  spend  all  my  brief  snatches  of  leisure  in  his 
studio  in  Granby  Street,  Hampstead  Road.  His  name  was  Owen 
Heatherleigh ;  and  I  thought  at  first  that  he  had  no  friends  or 
relations.  I  discovered  afterwards  that  he  had  plenty  of  both ; 
but  he  went  near  them  rarely.  He  was  a  man  getting  on  towards 
thirty,  with  rough  unkempt  hair  and  beard,  a  broad,  honest, 
powerful  face,  with  a  gash  upon  one  cheek  which  he  had  received 
while  studying  in  Germany  ;  large,  brown  eyes,  a  good,  handsome 
figure,  and  slovenly  dress.  His  history,  as  I  heard  it  from  him- 
self, bit  by  bit,  was  a  peculiar  and  sad  one.  He  was  of  very  good 
family  :  his  father  was  a  squire  in  some  remote  district  in  West- 
moreland ;  and,  some  ten  years  before  I  knew  him,  Owen  had  the 
misfortune  to  fall  in  love  with  a  young  girl,  the  daughter  of  the 
village  schoolmaster.  His  parents  would  hear  nothing  of  the 
match.  But  the  girl  loved  him  ;  and  he  had  just  come  home  from 
a  German  university,  full  of  ambition  and  independence  and  the 
fine  feeling  of  youth.  He  left  his  father's  house,  and  never  set 
foot  in  it  again. 

"  I  used  to  go  and  see  her  every  morning,  from  my  lodgings," 
he  said  one  night  to  me,  as  he  sat  before  the  fire ;  "  and  they  had 
a  little  room  prepared  for  me,  in  which  I  used  to  work  at  my 
water-color  sketches,  that  were,  of  course,  to  make  a  fortune  for 
us  both.  You  know  what  I  am,  Ted :  what  I  think  about  many 
things.     One  day  I  went  up  to  the  window  of  the  cottage :  it  was 

B2 


34  KILMENY. 

open — summer-time,  you  know.  She  was  singing — it  was  an  old, 
poor  piano — but  my  little  girl  had  the  tenderest  voice.  She  was 
singing  some  religious  hymn  or  other ;  and  I  caught  the  words, 
'  Nearer,  my  God,  to  Thee,  nearer  to  Thee,'  uttered  with  such  a 
pathetic  abandonment  that  I  dared  not  to  enter  the  house.  I  felt 
like  a  murderer  who  had  wandered  near  a  village  church,  and 
heard  the  peo})le  singing.  I  stood  outside  and  asked  myself  if  I 
could  destroy  that  beautiful,  simple  faith  of  hers.  If  she  were  to 
marry  me,  would  she  not  either  break  her  heart  over  my  condi- 
tion, or  could  I,  on  the  other  hajid,  crush  out  all  the  tenderest 
and  holiest  aspirations  of  her  sweet  young  life,  and  leave  her  the 
prey  of  doubt  and  despair?  Still  she  sang,  and  you  might  liave 
imagined  that  the  angels  themselves  were  listening  to  her.  I  hur- 
ried away  from  the  place  as  if  I  had  been  an  evil  spirit ;  and — 
God  forgive  me!  but — 1  tied  here  to  London.  1  think  it  was  not 
more  than  three  months  after  then  that  my  darling  died;  and 
when  I  went  down  there,  I  went  into  the  churchyard  and  saw  the 
flowers  on  her  grave.  She  died  without  ever  knowing  how  wholly 
and  perfectly  I  loved  her,  or  what  it  was  that  had  caused  me  to 
leave  her.  Some  half-hour  before  her  death  she  asked  for  her 
prayer-book — there  was  a  primrose  in  it,  you  know  :  that  was  all 
...  I  never  kissed  her." 

Such  was  his  story. 

At  another  time  he  told  me  why  he  was  so  lazy — he  who  could 
gain  reputation  and  money  by  every  half-hour  of  work  he  cliose 
to  expend. 

"  I  came  up  to  London  again,  resolved  to  nuike  my  own  way, 
and  be  equal  with  the  jjcople  who  had  cut  me  on  poor  Hettie's 
account — " 

"  Was  her  name  Hester  ?"  I  asked,  with  a  sudden  accession  of 
interest. 

"  Yes.  JJnt  I  found  it  was  no  use.  What  was  the  good  of 
working  yourself  to  death  to  amass  money,  when  you  found  your- 
self baffled  even  in  the  poor  competition  for  the  honor  that  money 
can  give  you  by  people  who  never  worked  a  stroke  in  their  life? 
They  had  all  the  chances  on  their  side;  I  had  none.  Had  I  made 
a  lot  of  money,  T  should  still  have  been  looked  on  in  society  as  a 
poor  devil  of  an  artist — a  man  who  had  to  earn  his  bread — whom 
one  might  patronize — who  was  your  servant  when  you  paid  him. 
I  gave  up  the  fight,"  he  continued,  recovering  his  gayety  of  tone. 


MY    FRIEND.  35 

"  I  take  my  ease.  I  have  educated  myself  into  tastes  tliat  are 
easily  gratified.  I  like  beer  better  than  all  other  drinks.  I  prefer 
a  pipe  to  any  cigar  you  can  give  me.  I  work  as  little  as  I  can, 
I  have  a  fine  constitution,  and  am  content  to  enjoy  laziness.  I 
lead,  on  the  whole,  a  remarkably  jolly  life.  As  we  used  to  say 
over  in  Heidelberg — 

*Ein  starkes  Bier,  ein  beizeiiuer  Tobak, 
Uud  eine  Magd  im  Fiitz,  das  ist  ntin  mein  Geschmack.' " 

"  You  have  the  beer  and  the  tobacco ;  but  I  don't  see  the  well- 
dressed  girl,"  I  remarked. 

"  Not  when  Polly  Whistler  comes  to  look  us  up  ?"  he  said. 

But  if  there  were  any  girl  in  the  world  whom  it  was  unlikely 
Owen  Heatherleigh  would  care  about,  it  was  Polly  Whistler — 
the  strapping,  frank,  good-natured  model,  who  had  a  tongue  as 
keen  as  her  wit,  and  a  heart  as  soft  as  her  big  black  eyes.  Polly 
was  a  very  respectable  girl,  be  it  understood.  She  only  sat  to 
two  or  three  artists  whom  she  knew,  and  who  were  known  to  each 
other;  and  she  was  a  good  deal  more  scrupulous  about  her  cos- 
tume than  many  ladies  who  would  have  regarded  her  with  anger 
and  disdain.  Sometimes  I  used  to  think  that  Polly  cared  more 
about  Owen  Heatherleigh  than  he  suspected,  or  than  she  chose  to 
show ;  but  then  again  the  suspicion  was  dispelled  by  the  open 
manner  iu  which  she  "  chaffed  "  him  about  his  misogynist  habits, 
and  suggested  that  if  she  were  his  wife  she  would  improve  both 
his  chambers  and  himself. 

I  remember  walking  up  with  him  one  evening  to  his  studio ;  he 
had  been  insisting  on  my  going  to  live  with  him,  help  him  in  his 
work,  and  share  the  profits.  The  mere  suggestion  of  such  a  thing 
set  my  head  spinning  with  wild  anticipations  ;  and  I  eagerly  went 
to  his  lodgings  to  talk  the  project  over. 

When  we  entered  the  large  room  we  found  the  lamp  already 
lit — throwing  a  dull  light  on  a  great,  gloomy  screen,  on  the  vari- 
ous sketches  and  pictures  hung  around  the  walls,  on  the  littered 
and  dirty  apartment,  and  on  a  row  of  dusty  and  sepulchral  plas- 
ter busts  set  along  a  high  shelf.     Polly  was  seated  by  the  fire. 

"  Well,  Polly,  are  you  here  ?"  he  said  unconcernedly,  taking 
another  seat. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  turning  her  bright,  frank  face  to  us  with  a 
smile ;  "  my  old  woman  went  out  to  a  concert  with  one  of  her 
neighbors,  and  I  didn't  care  about  sitting  in  the  house  alone." 


36  KILMENV. 

"  Quite  right  too.     Sitting  alone  begets  gloomy  fancies." 

"  That's  why  you  are  so  particularly  dull  at  times.  I  came 
down  here  thinking  to  put  your  place  a  bit  to  rights  for  you ; 
but  I  was  too  lazy,  or  tired.  I  was  to  tell  you  from  your  land- 
lady, though,  that  two  gentlemen,  who  would  not  leave  their  names, 
called  to-day  and  will  be  back  again  to-morrow." 

"Good!"  said  Ileatherleigh  to  me.  "  I  swear  they  want  to  of- 
fer me  a  commission  to  paint  a  picture  for  the  Prince  of  Wales." 

*'  No,"  said  Polly,  with  her  black  eyes  twinkling  maliciously, 
"  I  believe  they  are  like  the  unbelieving  Jews — they  seek  a  sign." 

"  You  are  very  wicked,  Polly,  do  yuu  know  ?"  he  said  careless- 
ly, filling  a  pipe.  "  You  will  never  be  tamed  and  made  respect- 
able until  yuu  marry.     I  wish  I  were  the  happy  man." 

"  I  wish  you  were,"  she  said,  with  a  laugh.  "  But  no.  Yuu 
w  ill  never  be  such  a  fool  as  to  offer  to  marry  me ;  and  I  shouldn't 
be  such  a  fool  as  to  accept  you,  if  you  did." 

"  I  hope  I  shall  never  get  fond  of  you,  Polly,"  he  said. 

"  Why  ?" 

By  this  time  the  smile  that  her  chaffing  had  brought  to  his 
face  had  quite  died  away,  and  he  was  staring  pensively  into  the 
fire.     When  he  spoke  it  was  as  if  he  were  speaking  to  himself. 

"  Because  the  (;liances  are  you  would  die." 

"Good  gracious  me!"  said  Polly. 

"  I  sometimes  have  a  notion,"  he  continued,  rather  absently, 
"  that  the  unknown  presence  of  some  fatal  malady — some  predis- 
position to  death — may  lend  to  women's  faces  a  sort  of  expres- 
sion, or  tenderness,  or  sadness,  that  is  peculiarly  attractive  to  some 
men.  The  man  does  not  know  why  he  is  jitlracted  by  this  ex- 
pression— he  only  knows  that  all  the  women  ln'  has  loved  have 
died  off  one  by  one,  while  they  were  still  young.  It  is  only  a 
theory,  you  know,  but  there  are  some  men  who  are  unlucky  like 
that." 

"Well,"  said  Polly,  "of  all  the  agreeable  topics  that  were  ever 
started,  this  is  about  the  most  lively.  It  all  comes  of  yi)ur  sitting 
indoors,  and  taking  no  interest  in  anything — not  even  in  your 
j)aiiiting.  An  artist  has  no  business  with  philosophy — has  he, 
Ted  ?"  ' 

F(jr  she  called  me  Ted,  too. 

"  Why,  no,"  I  said;  "but  Ilcathci'li'i^h  dabbles  in  philosophy 
in  onlcr  to  excuse  his  idleness." 


MY    FRIEND.  37 

"  Well,  Polly,  suppose  we  start  anotlier  topic.  Suppose  wo 
take  you  into  our  confidence,  and  consult  you  about  this  young 
gentleman's  prospects.  I  propose  to  assume  the  garb  of  an  old 
master,  and  have  him  for  a  pupil — a  student — a  disciple.  In  time 
he  will  be  able  to  paint  all  my  pictures  for  me ;  and  I  shall  have 
all  the  money,  while  he  reaps  all  the  praise.  I  propose  taking  a 
junior  partner  into  the  business ;  he  is  to  do  the  work,  while  I 
get  the  profits.  What  do  you  think  of  it,  Polly  ?  Did  I  ever 
show  you  the  things  he  has  done?  They're  not  very  good,  you 
know,  my  lad ;  they're  chiefly  remarkable  for  cheek.  But  in 
a  short  time,  you  would,  I  think,  be  able  to  paint  a  good  many 
bits  of  my  interiors  for  me,  and  so  forth.  What  do  you  say, 
Ted  ?" 

What  could  I  say  ?  Here  were  two  of  the  very  kindest  beings 
I  have  ever  met  in  this  world  laying  their  heads  together  to  help 
me ;  and  the  astonishment  and  gratitude  with  which  such  a  cir- 
cumstance filled  me  almost  blinded  me  to  the  obvious  fact  that 
Heatherleigh  was  trying  to  disguise  the  nature  of  his  offer.  To 
be  plain,  he,  too,  was  conferring  charity  upon  me.  I  knew  that 
for  a  long  time  I  could  not  be  of  the  slightest  use  to  him.  Be- 
sides, he  did  not  want  to  make  money  either  by  my  efforts  or 
his  own.  He  worked  by  fits  and  starts — and  after  he  had  got  a 
check  from  a  dealer,  he  relapsed  into  his  dawdling  ways  and  in- 
dolent, abstemious  luxury.  He  had  an  amazing  gift  or  trick  of 
manipulation — painting  cost  him  neither  study  nor  pains.  He 
could  turn  off,  when  pressed  for  money,  a  picture  in  an  inconceiv- 
ably short  space  of  time ;  and,  if  it  was  not  a  striking  or  original 
work,  it  was  still  out  of  the  common  run  of  picture-dealers'  pict- 
ures. There  was  not  a  particle  or  trace  of  genius  in  his  work — 
no  bold  conception  or  lofty  aim,  or  sharp  and  luminous  interpre- 
tation ;  but  there  was  an  easy  and  bright  cleverness  which  had  a 
certain  individualism  of  its  own,  and  which  procured  a  too  ready 
market  for  all  that  he  produced.  I  think  he  was  quite  conscious 
of  all  this,  and  that  the  knowledge  helped  to  confirm  him  in  his 
indolent  ways.  He  was  not  even  gifted  with  the  vague  hope  that 
he  might  become  a  great  painter.  He  painted  when  his  funds  be- 
came low,  or  when  he  took  a  sudden  fancy  to  dress  himself  re- 
markably well  and  give  a  few  companions  a  dinner  at  Richmond. 
He  was  a  handsome  man,  as  I  have  said ;  and,  when  he  chose,  he 
could  throw  off  the  roughness  of  his  present  mode  of  life,  and  as- 


38  KILMENT. 

tnnisli  one  with  the  extreme  elegance  and  finish  of  his  toilet  and 
general  appearance.  His  hands  were  fine  and  delicate  ;  he  had 
small  feet,  and  a  certain  air  of  refinement  and  ease  which  became 
his  intelligent  face  and  well-set  neck.  When  lie  thus  dressed  him- 
self, he  completed  the  metamorphosis  by  becoming  absurdly  crit- 
ical in  all  such  matters  as  wines,  cigars,  dishes,  dress,  and  man- 
ners. He  was  only  acting  a  part,  and  imagining  what  he  might 
have  been  had  he  not  quarrelled  with  his  family  ;  and  yet  he  act- 
ed the  part  so  naturally  that  his  companions,  chiefly  artists,  n?ed 
to  be  greatly  impressed  by  such  evidences  of  culture  and  high- 
breeding.  Next  day  you  would  find  him  laughing  at  his  own  fol- 
ly— dressed  in  an  old  velveteen  jacket,  with  his  hair  uncombed, 
his  waistcoat  open  and  showing  a  shirt  liberally  stained  with  me- 
gilp and  color,  his  delicate  fingers  sticky  and  dirty  with  varnishes 
and  oils,  and  on  the  table  beside  liis  easel  a  short  clay  pipe  and  a 
battered  pewter  pot  filled  with  half-and-lialf. 

"I  say  that  you  arc  too  kind,"  I  replied — "that  I  should  not 
be  worth  my  keep  for  a  very  long  time,  if  ever." 

"  You  don't  understand.  Master  Ted,"  said  he  ;  "  I  am  entering 
upon  a  business  speculation.  I  am  buying  up  rough  land,  out  of 
which  I  mean  to  get  great  harvests  yet.  I  mean  to  make  an 
artist  of  yon,  Ted." 

"  Make  an  artist  of  yourself  !"  said  Polly. 

"  I  mean  to  buy  you  out  of  the  hands  of  that  charming  person, 
Weavle.  I  shall  hold  you  as  my  slave  and  bondman  ;  and  then, 
when  I  am  an  old  man,  grown  white  and  lean  and  shaky,  yon 
shall  work  for  me  and  pay  my  little  bills,  and  I  shall  bless  yon. 
^'ou  are  not  bound  by  any  engagement  to  Weavle  ?" 

"  No." 

"  Nor  by  any  promise  to  your  parents  2" 

"  No." 

"  What  do  you  say,  then  ?" 

"  I  say  that  if  you  give  me  this  chance  I  will  do  my  very  best 
in  whatever  way  you  want ;  and  whether  I  succeed  or  not,  I  shall 
never  forget  your  kindness  to  me — about  the  greatest  I  have  ever 
received." 

"  Bravo !"  cried  l*<>lly,  with  a  sort  of  sob — indeed,  nothing 
could  equal  this  kind  creature's  intense  sympathy  witli  everybody 
and  everything  around  her.  "  But  do  you  know,  Ted,  what  yoii 
have  to  go  through  before  you  become  an  artist?" 


MY    FRIEND.  39 

I  professed  ignorance  ;  and  inwardly  lioped  that  Polly  did  not 
mean  that  I  must  grace  the  occasion  by  kissing  her. 

"  There  never  yet,"  said  she,  "  was  an  artist,  or  an  author,  or  a 
poet,  or  anybody  who  had  to  live  by  his  wits,  that  was  of  any  good 
until  he  had  met  with  a  terrible  disappointment  in  love.  You 
must  have  your  heart  half-broken,  Ted,  before  you  can  do  any- 
thing. You  know,  they  say  that  a  reaper  never  does  any  good 
until  he  has  cut  himself  with  the  sickle ;  so  an  artist  must  get 
wounded  and  hurt  in  the  same  way  before  he  discovers  the  way 
to  touch  people.     We  must  get  your  heart  broken,  Ted." 

"  Isn't  it  a  lucky  thing  that  there  are  so  many  women,"  said 
Heatherleigh,  "  whom  Providence  seems  to  have  appointed  for  the 
purpose.  I  can  easily  supply  him  with  any  number  of  young  per- 
sons whose  profession  is  to  break  your  heart  with  the  most  charm- 
ing air  in  the  world.  Let's  see :  I  wonder  whose  house  I  ought 
to  take  him  to — to  get  him  broken  in,  as  it  were.  The  air  of 
Lewison's  drawing-room — I  call  his  place  the  Esthetic  Grotto — 
is  too  fine  and  clear  for  a  vigorous,  strong  flirtation  ;  and  yet  there 
are  some  promising  young  executioners  to  be  met  with  there. 
You  remember  what  Alfred  de  Musset  says : 

'J'aime  encore  mieiix  notre  torture, 
Que  votre  me'tier  de  bourreau.' 

There  is  Bonnie  Lesley,  as  they  call  her,  for  example — " 

"What?"  I  said,  "the  girl  whose  face  you  are  constantly 
sketching  ?" 

"  Even  so,  young  sir." 

"  If  she  is  like  your  copies  of  her,  she  must  be  something  bet- 
ter than  what  you  say." 

"  Oh,  she  is  pretty  enough,  and  sweet  enough,  doubtless,"  said 
he.  "At  least,  I  presume  she  is  good-looking.  In  my  young 
days,  you  could  be  sure  of  a  woman's  being  beautiful,  because  you 
had  a  chance  of  seeing  her  face." 

"  I  am  certain,"  said  Polly,  "  you  have  painted  her  face  oftener 
than  she  has  done.  I  saw  lier  once  in  Regent's  Park — recognized 
her  directly.     I  should  fall  in  love  with  her  if  I  were  a  man." 

"  Very  likely,"  said  Heatherleigh,  "  and,  if  you  were  a  man, 
you  would  probably  regret  it.  However,  I  am  glad  to  hear  you 
say  a  kind  word  for  her,  Polly.  You  women  are  so  very  dis- 
trustful of  each  other." 


40  KILMENY. 

"  I  suppose  it's  because  we  know  ourselves  so  well,"  said  Polly, 
with  a  sigh. 

Heatherleigh  now  rang  the  bell,  and  begged  his  landlady  to 
send  up  supper.  It  was  soon  on  the  table — cold  mutton,  pickled 
onions,  water-cresses,  cheese,  and  half-and-half,  with  a  small  bot- 
tle of  stout  for  Polly's  exclusive  use. 

Polly  Whistler  and  I  frequently  supped  there ;   and  at  these 
modest  entertainments  the  girl  really  made  a  most  charming  com- 
panion.    She  had  an  inexhaustible  fund  of  good  spirits ;  and  she 
had  a  playful,  ingenious  wit  that  I  have  never  seen  approached  by 
any  other  woman.     Of  course,  the  brilliant  and  sharp  and  odd 
things  she  was  constantly  uttering  lost  none  of  their  effect  by  the 
freedom  of  her  manners,  or  by  a  half-dramatic  trick  she  had  of 
giving  them  point  and  expression  ;  and  yet  there  was  never  a  trace 
of  rudeness  or  bad  taste  in  anything  she  said  or  did.     Heather- 
leigh used  to  lie  back  in  his  big  wooden  chair,  and  listen  with  a 
sort  of  lazy  enjoyment  and  paternal  forbearance  to  her  rapid  talk, 
her  bright  laughter,  and  her  shrewd  and  humorous  hits.     He,  too, 
in  his  indolent  fashion,  would  often  meet  her  half-way  in  these 
sarcastic  comments  on   men,  women,  and  the  accidents  of  life. 
She  used  to  laugh  and  talk  and  jibe  for  the  mere  pleasure  of 
amusing  her  companions  and  herself  ;  but  you  could  see  that  in 
his  lazy  epigrams  upon  human  nature  there  was  just  a  touch  of 
bitterness — as    if,   unconsciously   to   himself,  he   was    exhibiting 
marks  of  that  old  and  useless  struggle  against  the  hard,  resisting 
mass  of  the  world.     There  was  a  half-concealed  pungency  about 
his  wit  that  made  you  think  he  was  scarcely  himself  aware  of  its 
acrid  flavor;  and  to  one  who  was  accustomed  to  his  ways,  his  say- 
ings had  the  unusual  merit  of  appearing  to  be  dragged  from  him. 
I  never  saw  him  talk  for  effect — even  in  trying  to  amuse  a  girl, 
when  a  man  is  scarcely  expected  to  be  accurate,  honest,  or  sensible. 
He  and  Polly  used  to  relish  these  quiet  little  meetings  keenly  ; 
and  1 — why  1  thought  there  never  were  iti  the  world  two  people 
who  enjoyed  themselves  so  thoroughly  and  in  so  innocent  a  fash- 
ion, who  were  so  good-natured  and  disinterested  and  frank  and 
kind  to  everybody,  high  and  low,  whom  they  met.     Rut  I  knew 
they  were  exceptions;  for  the  average  of  human  nature  was  as 
yet  represented  to  me  by  Wcavle. 

Then  we  went  to  see  Polly  home.     She  lived  just  round  the 
corner,  in   Albany  Street,  l)ehind  Regent's  Park ;  and  when  she 


MY    FRIEND.  41 

bade  us  good-bye,  slie  said  she  sliould  some  day  go  to  see  my 
picture  in  the  Academy.  The  words  thrilled  through  me,  and  for 
a  moment  I  could  see  nothing  of  the  dark  houses  and  the  pave- 
ment, and  of  my  two  companions — but  instead  a  great  room  fill- 
ed with  fashionable  folks  in  splendid  attire,  all  come  to  look  at 
the  rows  of  brilliant  pictures.  If  I  could  but  get  a  modest  corner 
there  !  I  said  to  myself,  with  a  strange  throb — and  if,  by  chance, 
my  obscure  and  little  effort  were  to  be  glanced  at,  even  for  a  mo- 
ment, by — 

"  Thank  you,  Polly,"  said  I,  with  the  old  consciousness  falling 
down  on  me  again  ;  "  my  work  has  already  been  seen  on  the 
Academy  walls,  and  I  suppose  it  will  be  again — on  the  frames." 

So  we  turned  away,  Heatherleigh  and  I,  and  walked  carelessly 
onward.  It  was  a  beautiful  night,  still  and  mild,  with  a  full  moon 
shining  on  the  pale  fronts  of  the  tall  houses  that  lie  along  the  north 
side  of  Regent's  Park,  and  glittering  here  and  there  on  the  glossy 
leaves  of  the  young  birches.  There  was  almost  no  one  to  be  seen 
along  the  white  pavements ;  but  occasionally  we  passed  a  house 
the  windows  of  which  were  lit  up,  gleaming  warm  and  red  into 
the  pale  gray  light  outside.  We  walked  around  Regent's  Park 
and  Primrose  Hill,  and  along  the  Finchley  Road  towards  the 
neighborhood  of  Ilampstead ;  Heatherleigh  talking  of  many  things 
— of  the  project  he  had  proposed  to  me,  of  Polly  Whistler,  and, 
latterly,  of  that  old  dead  love  of  his,  and  of  all  the  beautiful  hopes 
and  aspirations  that  lay  buried  in  her  grave.  He  seldom  talked 
of  her ;  when  he  did,  there  was  something  to  me  almost  terrible 
in  witnessing  the  emotion  of  this  strong  man — of  the  piteous  way 
in  which  he  used  to  look  back  and  wonder  how  the  world  could 
have  compassed  this  cruel  and  irremediable  thing  that  was  to  haunt 
the  rest  of  his  life  with  its  shadow.  And  yet  there  was  a  sweet- 
ness in  the  memory  of  it,  I  think,  as  I  think  there  is  in  the  mem- 
ory of  all  our  great  sorrows — so  long  as  these  have  not  been  the 
result  of  our  own  wilfulness  or  folly. 

"  Come,"  he  said,  "  let  us  talk  of  something  else.  Do  you  know 
I  regard  Polly  Whistler  as  the  most  heroic  little  woman  I  know  ? 
How  Polly  would  laugh  if  you  were  to  tell  her  she  was  a  heroine. 
Did  you  hear,  just  as  we  walked  off,  an  angry  screech  of  a  wom- 
an's voice  from  inside  the  house  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"That  note  of  kindly  welcome  was  sounded  by  her  mother, 


42  KILMENY. 

who,  I  suppose,  has  returned  from  her  concert  in  a  state  of  intox- 
ication. Fred  Ward  told  me  this  morning  of  the  frightful  per- 
secution the  girl  suffers  at  the  hands  of  this  woman,  who  spends 
all  her  earnings,  and  threatens  her  if  she  does  not  bring  home  more 
money.  When  she  is  in  one  of  her  drunken  fits,  she  follows  the 
girl  through  the  streets,  and  goes  up  to  the  studios  after  her,  and 
insists  upon  getting  money." 

"  Fred  Ward,"  said  I,  "  must  have  been  putting  more  imagina- 
tion into  his  story  than  he  ever  did  into  one  of  his  pictures.  How 
is  it  Polly  never  hinted  anything  of  the  kind,  but,  on  the  contra- 
ry, has  always  spoken  very  generously  and  nicely  about  her  '  old 
woman?'  How  is  it  that  the  old  woman  never  pestered  you  for 
money  ?" 

"There's  the  odd  thing,"  said  he.  "You  know  Polly  only  sits 
to  three  or  four  fellows,  all  of  whom  I  know.  Every  one  of  them, 
it  seems,  is  familiarly  acquainted  with  the  mother,  except  myself; 
and  Ward  told  me  that  Polly  had  made  very  great  sacrifices  that 
I  might  not  know,  and  begged  them  all  not  to  tell  me.  Indeed, 
the  old  woman,  it  seems,  holds  up  a  visitation  to  my  studio  as  the 
highest  threat  she  can  use,  and  Polly  will  do  anything  rather  than 
that  I  should  learn  what  sort  of  a  mother  she  has  got.  Ward 
says  it  is  time  that  this  terrorism  should  cease,  and  that  I  ought 
to  explain  to  Mother  Whistler  that  she  had  better  drop  it.  He 
says,  too,  that  the  girl's  conduct  towards  her  mother  is  simply  ad- 
mirable— in  kindness  and  forbearance  and  good-nature.  But  now 
I  can  look  back  and  explain  a  good  many  things  about  Polly  that 
used  to  puzzle  me  sometimes." 

"  Well,"  I  said,  "  if  I  were  you,  I  should  not  tell  her  that  I  knew. 
The  girl  doesn't  want  you  to  think  ill  of  her  mother;  give  her  her 
own  way." 

"  I'll  consider  about  it,"  he  replied ;  "  but  if  I  could  get  a  pri- 
vate word  with  Mrs.  Whistler,  at  some  sober  moment,  I  should 
like  to  tell  her  what  might  be  the  result  of  her  conduct  upon  a 
girl  less  determined  in  character  than  poor  Polly." 

It  was  nearly  one  o'clock  when  wc  drew  near  Primrose  Hill 
again.  The  streets  were  now  quite  deserted,  and  there  was  scarcely 
a  light  to  be  seen  in  any  of  the  windows  of  the  tall,  pale  houses. 
As  we  came  around  by  Albert  lload,  however,  we  observed  one 
house  in  which  the  lower  rooms  were  yet  lit  up.  Heathcrlcigh 
crossed  over,  and  we  paused  in  front  of  the  railings. 


IN  regent's  park.  43 

"  That  is  the  Esthetic  Grotto,"  he  whispered  ;  "  I  wonder  who 
are  inside  at  present  ?" 

The  windows  were  open  and  the  Venetian  blinds  were  down  ; 
the  latter,  from  their  sloping  position,  showing  only  gleaming  lines 
of  the  roof  and  chandeliers  inside.  Presently  a  girl's  voice  was 
heard — a  pure  and  high  soprano,  that  rose  clearly  and  fully  above 
the  delicate  rippling  accompaniment  of  the  piano.  In  the  stillness 
of  the  night  we  heard  every  tone  and  modulation  of  the  exquisite 
voice,  and  I,  for  one,  stood  entranced  there,  drinking  in  the  beau- 
tiful, touching  melody.  . 

"  I  think  it  is  Schubert's,"  said  Heatherleigh ;  "  the  Lewisons 
are  mad  about  Schubert." 

At  length  the  song  was  finished,  and  the  blank  stillness  that 
followed  struck  painfully  on  the  ear. 

"  They  are  unusually  late  to-night,"  said  Heatherleigh.  "  They 
keep  open  house  every  evening,  for  everybody  who  has  musical  or 
literary  or  artistic  tastes.  The  place  is  a  perfect  den  of  big  and 
small  celebrities,  and  sometimes  they  have  the  most  brilliant  little 
gatherings." 

After  a  moment,  he  said,  with  a  smile — 

"Do  you  know  who  was  singing  that  German  song,  just  now?" 

"  How  should  I  ?" 

"  It  was  Bonnie  Lesley,  as  they  call  her." 


CHAPTER  V. 

IN  regent's  park. 

On  the  first  morning  that  I  walked  up  Tottenham  Court  Road 
towards  Heatherleigh's  studio,  with  the  old  shadow  of  Weavle  re- 
moved from  over  me,  I  felt  that  the  world  had  grown  immeasura- 
bly wider.  It  was  the  morning  of  the  first  of  May,  and  all  the 
sweet  influences  of  the  season  were  added  to  this  one  supreme  sen- 
sation of  breadth  and  life,  and  a  joyous  and  active  future.  I  im- 
agined myself  then  going  to  conquer  the  world.  I  felt  the  delight 
of  anticipation  tingling  through  me.  I  straightened  up  my  shoul- 
ders and  sniffed  the  fresh  morning  air,  which  was  sweet  and  grate- 
ful even  in  this  dingy  district,     I  clenched  my  fists,  brought  them 


44  KILMENY. 

up  to  my  chest,  and  sliot  tliein  out  again  as  if  I  were  knockin" 
down  a  Wcavle  on  each  side.  To  my  honor  and  surprise,  I  found 
tliat,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  I  had  in  my  blind  exultation  dealt  a  severe 
blow  to  an  elderly  gentleman,  who  had  been  crossing  the  street, 
and  was  just  about  to  step  on  the  pavement. 

"  You  great,  lumbering  idiot !"  he  said. 

I  turned  and  made  the  most  ample  and  profuse  apologies,  which 
he  cut  short  with — 

"  Go  to  the—" 

I  did  not  hear  him  complete  the  sentence  as  he  angrily  turned 
away,  but  I  can  imagine  how  it  ended.  Yet  I  would  have  braved 
any  amount  of  anger  to  hear  those  words  "great,  lumbering,"  ap- 
plied to  me.  Was  it,  then,  that  I  might  not  be  so  deficient  in  bod- 
ily presence  as  I  had  imagined?  I  regarded  myself  in  the  window 
of  a  shoe-shop.  I  did  not  cut  a  distinguished  figure — that  was 
clear.  I  was  obviously  taller  than  the  old  gentleman  whom  I  had 
hurt  in  a  sensitive  place,  but  then  he  was  of  the  l>arrel  order  of 
human  architecture.  For  the  rest,  I  had  not  much  in  my  appear- 
ance on  which  to  pride  myself.  There  was  a  certain  lean  and 
hungry  look  on  my  pale  face,  which  the  staring  dark  eyes  and 
rather  beak-like  nose  did  not  diminish.  By  accident,  my  hair  had 
been  allowed  to  grow  long,  and,  as  I  looked  at  myself  in  this  ex- 
temporized mirror,  I  could  compare  myself  to  nothing  so  much  as 
a  hungry  Italian  refugee,  who  had  lost  some  notion  or  idea  when 
he  was  young,  and  spent  the  rest  of  his  life  in  wistfully  trying  to 
recall  it.  TMctured  against  the  rows  of  shining  boots,  my  face 
must  have  seemed  that  of  one  unsatisfied,  meditative,  melanclK)ly, 
and  perhaps  a  trifie  older-looking  than  I  ought  to  have  been  at  my 
years. 

"Good-morrow  to  the  youthful  Apelles,"  said  Ileatherleigh, 
when  I  entered.  "  You  have  come  betimes.  1  presume  you 
mean  to  set  to  work  immediately." 

lie  was  lying  in  his  big  easy-chair,  his  leg  over  the  one  arm  of 
it,  a  clay  pipe  in  his  mouth,  a  volume  of  Bain  in  his  hand,  the  break- 
fast things  still  on  the  table.  lie  certainly  had  not  washed,  and 
you  could  only  say  by  way  of  courtesy  that  he  had  dressed. 

"  If  you  j)lease,"  I  said. 

I  felt  very  nervous  all  the  same,  and  looked  timidly  around  to 
sec  if  there  was  anything  I  fancied  I  might  be  able  to  do  for  him. 
I  glanced  at  the  picture  which  was  on  his  principal  easel.     It  was 


IN  regent's  park.  45 

a  remarkably  clever  study  of  a  lady  of  Charles  ll.'s  time,  seated 
in  a  high-backed  chair,  with  a  couple  of  spaniels  playing  at  her 
feet.  There  was  absolutely  no  idea  or  aim  whatever  in  the  picture ; 
he  had  merely  taken  this  pretty  and  cleverly  painted  face,  and  sur- 
rounded it  with  a  few  appropriate  accessories. 

"  What  do  you  think  of  that  ?"  he  said. 

"  I  don't  see  what  you  mean  by  it,"  I  answered,  frankly. 

"  I  will  tell  you,  then.  I  mean  money  by  it.  It  is  a  sketch 
I  made  for  the  market  some  eight  months  ago.  I  had  the  good 
sense  to  be  ashamed  of  it,  and  turned  its  face  to  the  wall.  I  took 
it  down  this  morning,  and  mean  to  finish  it — why  ?  do  you  think?" 

Of  course,  I  had  no  idea. 

"  Because  Professor  Eain  has  just  been  pointing  out  to  me  that 
I  have  a  natural  genius  for  being  happy.  In  the  country,  I  have 
the  keen  pleasure  of  Self-conservation — the  storing  up  of  physical 
health  ^nd  nervous  energy ;  in  the  town,  I  have  the  indolent  pleas- 
ure of  Stimulation — drawing  upon  that  store  of  superfluous  vital- 
ity. If  Stimulation  were  out  of  the  question,  and  all  our  pleasures 
only  increased  our  health !  As  it  is,  however,  it  seems  to  me,  my 
Pupil,  that  I  have  not  been  balancing  the  two — that  I  must  have 
more  of  Self-conservation ;  and  as  I  propose,  consequently,  to  go 
into  the  country,  I  took  down  that  picture  to  find  the  means." 

"  I  shall  be  very  glad,  Master,  if  you  will  instruct  me  in  Philos- 
ophy as  well  as  in  Art,"  I  said. 

"  That  notion  has  just  occurred  to  me.  But  then,  you  see,  the 
old  teachers  of  philosophy  were  accustomed  to  talk  to  their  dis- 
ciples under  the  trees  and  in  the  leafy  alleys  of  Academus;  and, 
accordingly,  the  best  thing  I  think  we  can  do  this  fine  morning  is 
to  take  a  walk  in  Regent's  Park.     What  do  you  say  ?" 

"  It  is  for  you  to  decide,  of  course,"  I  answered  ;  but  the  notion 
of  thus  being  able  to  walk  out  anywhere  in  the  hours  which  ought 
to  be  devoted  to  work  was  thoroughly  bewildering  to  me.  Nor 
could  I  throw  off  an  impression  that  there  was  something  wrong 
in  the  proposal ;  and  that,  if  we  did  go  out,  we  should  be 
"  caught." 

"  I  must  dress,"  he  said,  getting  up  out  of  the  chair ;  "  and, 
meanwhile,  I  will  put  you  on  your  trial.  You  see  I  have  sketched 
in  behind  the  lady  that  screen  over  there.  If  you  like,  you  can 
try  your  hand  at  finishing  it — keeping  it  very  quiet.  Use  my 
palette  until  I  get  you  one  for  yourself.     There,  sit  you  down." 


46  KILMENV. 

He  left,  and  I  sat  down  before  the  picture  with  fear  and  trem- 
bling. My  hand  shook  so  that  I  could  scarce  squeeze  the  color 
out  of  the  tubes ;  and  my  eyes  seemed  to  throb  and  burn.  The 
screen  was  an  old,  tattered  thing,  which  had  at  one  time  been  cov- 
ered with  colored  maps.  Now  all  these  had  subsided,  until  the 
surface  was  a  mass  of  cool  grays,  with  here  and  there  just  a  touch 
of  warmer  tint,  where  Africa  or  England  was  vaguely  visible.  It 
was  an  admirable  bit  of  background  ;  but  how  was  I  to  at- 
tempt it  ? 

I  wonder  if  Heatherleigh  purposely  delayed  his  return.  At  first, 
it  seemed  to  me  that  every  moment  the  door  leading  into  his  small 
bedroom  would  open,  and  that  he  would  walk  over  to  the  picture 
to  see  that  I  had  been  too  nervous  to  begin  it  at  all.  Then  the 
brush  began  to  work  a  little  better ;  and  although  my  eyes  still 
throbbed  and  burned  so  that  at  times  the  whole  screen  and  room 
faded  away  and  left  only  a  spotted  mist  there,  I  felt,  rather  than 
saw,  that  the  screen  in  the  picture  was  beginning  to  look  somewhat 
like  the  actual  screen  beyond. 

This  was  not  by  any  means  the  first  time  I  had  attempted  paint- 
ing in  oil.  Many  a  chance  effort  I  had  made  to  wrestle  with  the 
stronger  medium;  although  I  always  returned  to  water-color  as 
that  which  I  could  use  most  easily.  It  is  well  known  that  tyros 
paint  more  presentably  in  oil  than  in  water — their  experience  of 
both  being  equal ;  but  I  had  dabbled  in  water-color  for  two  or 
three  years,  while  my  acquaintance  with  oil  was  exceedingly  lim- 
ited. From  the  moment,  however,  in  which  I  had  accepted 
Heatherleigh's  ofifer,  I  had  industriously  experimented  with  a  few 
of  the  cheapest  tubes  and  some  bits  of  board,  until  I  could  fairly 
copy  the  different  colors  and  hues  of  the  objects  around  me.  Yet 
to  have  my  clumsy  manipulation  placed  exactly  side  by  side  with 
Heatherleigh's  dexterous  and  clean  touch  was  a  crue!  test. 

At  length  the  door  opened,  and  he  walked  across  the  room. 
The  brush  fell  from  my  hand,  and  I  had  nearly  dropped  niyself, 
for  mv  head  was  swimming  with  the  superlative  concentration  of 
the  last  half-hour.  Very  probably,  too,  my  face  was  a  trifle  paler 
than  usual ;  for  I  noticed  that  he  regarded  me  curiously  before  he 
looked  at  the  picture  at  all,  and  that  he  kindly  placed  his  hand  on 
my  shoulder  as  he  proceeded  to  scan  the  wild  effcjrt  I  had  made. 

I  felt  myself  grow  hot  and  cold  alternately  in  that  moment  of 
dire  suspense;  and  when   lie  saiil,  with  a  tone  of  surprise,  ^' ]iy 


IN  regent's   park.  4Y 

Jove !"  it  was  as  if  a  blow  of  some  sort  had  struck  me.  I  dared 
scarcely  say  to  myself  what  that  exclamation  might  mean. 

Then  he  said,  quietly  and  cheerfully — 

"  Whatever  made  you  try  to  paint  in  all  that  accurately  in  five 
minutes  ?  Of  course,  it  won't  do,  you  know  ;  but  the  effort  you 
have  made,  and  the  result  you  have  gained,  in  a  few  minutes,  is 
astounding." 

I  rose  up,  keeping  firm  hold — I  know  not  why — of  the  brushes 
and  the  palette. 

"  Do  you  think,"  I  said — "  do  you  consider — " 

Then  I  felt  that  I  was  reeling,  and  knew  vaguely  that  he  put 
out  his  arm  quickly  to  catch  me.  After  that  a  blank.  When  I 
came  to,  I  found  that  I  had  fallen  backward,  striking  my  head 
against  the  table.  Heatherleigh  led  me  into  his  bedroom,  and 
made  me  bathe  my  head  in  cold  water.  After  a  few  minutes  I 
was  all  right. 

"  Come,"  said  he,  with  a  quiet  smile  on  his  face,  "  take  my  arm, 
and  let's  go  for  a  walk  in  Regent's  Park." 

We  went  out  into  the  cool,  fresh  air ;  and  I  was  proud  of  the 
exhaustion  I  felt,  for  I  knew  it  had  been  incurred  in  that  one  ter- 
rible effort  to  cut  forever  the  chain  that  bound  me  to  Weavle  and 
the  old  hard  times.  But  was  it  of  any  avail  ?  He  had  never  an- 
swered my  question  ;  and  I  dared  not  ask  it  again,  lest  he  might 
tell  me,  in  tone  if  not  in  words,  that  I  could  never  be  useful  to 
him — that  the  dreams  I  had  already  begun  to  dream  were  vision- 
ary, impossible,  hopeless. 

After  a  few  minutes'  silence  he  said  to  me,  gravely  and  kind- 

"  If  you  don't  find  some  means  of  curbing  that  impulsive  and 
impetuous  will  of  yours,  I  fear  your  life  will  be  neither  a  long  one 
nor  a  happy  one.  If  you  suffer  your  temperament  to  lead  you 
into  the  habit  of  desiring  successive  things  so  earnestly  that  you 
lose  all  consciousness  and  judgment  in  striving  for  them,  you  will 
find  yourself  subjected  in  life  to  a  series  of  the  bitterest  disappoint- 
ments, and  these  revulsions  might  have  a  disastrous  effect  on  one 
so  sensitive  as  you  are.  There  is  nothing  of  an  intensely  dramatic 
or  tragic  kind  that  I  can  imagine  as  being  unlikely  to  fall  in  your 
way.  You  are  the  sort  of  man,  for  example,  who,  if  I  mistake 
not,  would  coolly  and  deliberately  blow  out  your  brains  if  some 
woman  you  had  set  your  heart  on  proved  unfaithful  to  you." 


48  KILMENV. 

"  You  iinao;ine  all  that,"  I  said,  "  because  T  tried  liard  to  paint 
the  screen.  But  1  didn't  know  that  1  had  been  trying  hard  until 
it  was  all  over." 

"  Precisely,"  he  said  ;  "  you  entirely  abandon  yourself  to  a  pass- 
ing mood  or  fancy.  I  liave  remarked  it  several  times.  Now 
what  would  be  the  result  if  you  happened  to  set  before  you  one 
supreme  aim — if  you  staked  all  your  chances  upon  one  throw  ?" 

"  In  what  direction  do  you  mean  ?"  I  asked. 

"  In  any.  You  say  to  yourself,  /  will  never  cease  striving  until 
I  have  painted  a  Madonna  to  eclipse  RaphaeVs,  or  /  will  win  such 
and  such  a  ivoman,  or  die.  You  are  just  as  likely  as  not,  in  eitlier 
case,  to  aim  at  something  quite  impossible.  The  result? — wlien 
you  find  yourself  cheated  in  your  notions  of  your  own  power, 
when  you  find  the  chief  object  of  your  life  removed  from  you, 
what  is  more  likely  than  that  you  will  suddenly  put  an  end  to  a 
wretched  failure — by  a  pennyworth  of  poison." 

"You  want  me  to  confine  myself  to  easy  possibilities?" 

"To  possibilities." 

"  Who  is  to  tell  me  what  is  possible  to  me  ?  Suppose  I  liave 
an  unconscionable  craving,  tliat  might  make  me  hope  to  win  this 
or  that  prize?  Or  don't  you  think  that  one  may  feel  the  delight 
of  striving  for  anything — however  impossible — a  greater  happiness 
tiian  the  achieving  of  some  small  immediate  success?  You  your- 
self— don't  you  constantly  aim  at  something  ni-w  and  unknown  in 
a  picture,  and  chance  the  failure  ?" 

"  No,  I  don't,"  he  said,  with  a  laugli.  "  I  know  very  accurately 
what  1  can  do  ;  but  I  am  out  of  court  in  the  matter.  I  know  that 
1  am  myself  a  failure  ;  and  the  knowledge  doesn't  bother  me.  All 
I  say  to  you  is  this — take  heed  not  to  set  your  desires  too  high ; 
for  to  y<ju  a  disap[)()intment  miglit  be  a  catastrophe  of  a  sudden 
and  final  kind." 

For  me  to  set  my  Icsires  too  high  !  I  inwardly  laughed  at  the 
notion.  Was  it  not  enough  that  1  was  permitted  at  times  to  break 
through  the  hard  conditions  of  life  by  dreaming? — by  dreaming 
of  tilings  wliich  were  possible  to  others,  but  which  were  to  me 
f<jrever  impossible. 

So  we  went  around  and  entered  Regent's  l*ark.  llcatherlcigli 
kept  talking  of  all  sorts  of  tilings — following,  as  usual,  the  most 
diverse  moods  of  morbid  introspection,  of  gay  raillery,  of  bitter 
sarcasm.      Yet  all    this    was  colored   by   a   bit)ad,  warm   light  oi 


IN  regent's  park.  49 

kindliness  which,  I  suppose,  partly  owed  its  orig-in  to  the  evident 
enjoyment  he  had  in  exercising-  himself  in  any  way.  Life  was 
really  a  happiness  to  him ;  and  his  sharp  speeches,  and  brooding 
analj'ses,  and  light-hearted  jocularity  were  as  great  a  delight  to 
him  as  the  physical  acts  of  breathing  and  seeing  and  walking — all 
of  which  he  enjoyed  with  an  enjoyment  that  was  at  times  just  a 
trifle  too  conscious.  I  do  not  believe  that  he  had  a  single  care  to 
cloud  his  mind.  lie  had  long  ago  cut  all  connection  with  what- 
ever relatives  he  may  have  had ;  and  was  free  from  necessary 
friendships  and  forced  duties.  His  few  acquaintances  were  of  his 
own  manner  of  living ;  and  he  could  obtain  their  society  just  in 
such  proportion  as  he  chose.  lie  could  make  more  money  than 
he  needed ;  and  the  labor  was  neither  painful  nor  irksome  to  him. 
He  had  no  particular  aim  or  desire  to  torment  him ;  he  rejoiced 
in  his  physical  strength,  in  his  mental  clearness,  as  he  rejoiced  in 
the  flavors  of  food  and  beer  and  tobacco.  How  a  man,  living  un- 
der such  circumstances,  failed  to  become  a  selfish  misanthrope,  I 
never  could  understand. 

"Don't  you  ever  mean  to  marry  ?"  I  said  to  him,  this  morning, 
as  we  were  passing  the  Zoological  Gardens,  and  were  coming  in 
view  of  the  broad  park,  that  lay  green  and  beautiful  in  the  May 
sunlight. 

"  Sometimes  I  wish  somebody  would  take  the  trouble  to  marry 
me,"  he  said.  "  I  think  I  am  in  the  position  of  a  good  many  un- 
married men.  They  know  they  could  be  very  affectionate  and 
contented  if  they  married ;  but  they  know  the  bother  and  peril 
of  looking  out  for  a  wife,  and  don't  care  to  run  the  risk.  You 
glance  around  the  circle  of  your  acquaintance,  and  see  a  number  of 
more  or  less  sensible,  pretty,  and  well-meaning  girls.  You  can't 
marry  one  of  them  without  spending  ever  so  much  time  and  anxi- 
ety in  finding  out  her  disposition,  and  also  without  encountering 
the  nuisance  of  rivalship.  Then  yuu  may  either  find  yourself  mis- 
taken and  be  disgusted  with  your  waste  of  trouble,  or  you  may 
really  fall  in  love  with  her,  and  find  her  perverse  or  inclined  to 
marry  somebody  else — and  so  on ;  while  all  the  time  you  are  los- 
ing the  best  years  of  your  life  in  this  perplexing  and  irritating, 
and  often  profitless  search.  Of  course,  I  am  talking  of  men  who 
are  a  little  anxious  about  the  sort  of  woman  they  mean  to  marry. 
At  your  age  I  fell  in  love  with  everything  that  wore  ear-rings,  and 
would  have  married  anybody  capable  of  saying  '  I  will.' " 

C 


50  KILMENV, 

"  y  et  men  do  marfv,"  I  said,  "  in  spite  of  all  the  current  talk." 

"  Oh,  yes,"  he  said,  "  in  the  mean  time  they  do.  But  if  our 
young  men  cultivate  their  present  notions  and  habits,  we  shall 
soon  have  this  world  getting  so  far  to  be  like  heaven  that  there 
shall  be  in  it  neither  marrying  nor  giving  in  marriage.  At  pres- 
ent—" 

Either  he  paused  or  I  forgot  to  listen.  For  some  minutes  I 
had  been  gazing  vaguely  at  two  figures  which  were  walking  slowly 
towards  us  under  the  trees.  While  they  were  yet  a  long  way  off, 
the  lines  of  sunshine  falling  across  the  path  from  between  the 
branches  gleamed  upon  them  from  time  to  time ;  and  it  seemed 
to  me  that  the  materials  fur  a  very  pretty  French  picture  were 
there  before  us — in  the  straight  road,  the  long  and  narrowing  av- 
enue of  trees,  the  bars  of  sunlight,  and  the  fashionably  dressed 
ladies  who  were  walking  together.  Without  thinking  of  them,  I 
was  admiring  the  contrast  in  their  costume.  One  of  them  wore  a 
tight-fitting  dress  of  black  silk  and  crape,  with  a  rather  lengthy 
train  that  added  height  and  dignity  to  her  somewhat  short  and 
slight  figure.  Even  at  that  distance  I  could  see  that  she  walked 
with  a  wonderful  ease  and  grace,  that  made  the  girlish  little  person 
look  ahnost  majestic.  Incedit  reglnd.  Her  companion,  on  the 
other  hand,  actually  shone  in  the  sunlight;  for  she  wore  a  gauzy 
white  dress,  the  upper  and  tight  portion  of  which  was  touched 
liere  and  there  with  bright  blue,  while  the  under  part  revealed  a 
bold  dash  of  color  in  the  gleam  of  a  blue  silk  petticoat.  Then 
she  wore  a  small  white  hat,  with  a  blue  feather  in  it ;  and  she  had 
a  bit  of  blue  near  her  neck ;  while  she  carried  in  her  arms  a  white 
Pomeranian  dog,  which,  like  herself,  wore  a  collar  of  blue  satin 
ribbon,  with  absurdly  big  bows.  She  had  profuse  golden  hair,  and 
a  bright  complexion  that  the  twilight  of  her  white  parasol  scarcely 
dimmed.  Indeed,  so  very  brilliant  and  beiiUtiful  was  this  appari- 
tion, that  as  the  belts  of  sunlight  through  which  slic  passed  broad- 
ened, and  as  she  came  nearer,  I  could  not  keep  from  regarding  the 
harmonioiis  taste  of  the  dress  and  the  singular  effect  the  wliole 
fio-ure  produced  in  the  alternate  green  shadow  and  yellow  sunlight 
— insomuch  that  I  paid  no  attention  to  the  other  lady  by  her  side. 

I  suppose  we  all  of  us  often  look  at  })eople  without  seeing  them 
— stare  in  their  faces,  while  thinking  of  something  else,  and  are 
yet  quite  guiltless  of  intentit)nal  rudeness.  I  know  that  I  had 
fallen  into  a  sort  of  trance,  and  heard  nothing  more  of  Heather- 


IN    REGENT  S    PARK.  51 

/eigli's  voice,  when  I  suddenly  observed  a  smile  of  surprise  appear 
on  the  face  of  the  girl  in  white  and  blue.  I  knew,  rather  than 
saw,  that  Heatherleigh  lifted  his  hat,  and  went  forward  to  speak 
to  her.  At  the  same  time,  as  I  was  naturally  passing  on,  I  caught 
a  glimpse  of  a  pair  of  eyes  that  had  been  looking  at  me.  I  only 
remembered,  a  minute  afterwards,  when  the  cold  shiver  had  gone 
out  of  me,  that  these  dark,  luminous,  gray-blue  eyes  had  also  a 
certain  surprise  in  them — perhaps  a  kindly  surprise,  and  inquiry. 

Heatherleigh  stopped  and  talked  to  the  two  girls  for  several 
minutes,  and  I  was  glad.  I  never  could  understand  the  easy  dex- 
terity with  which  the  matter-of-fact  people  in  the  Scriptures  en- 
countered the  most  startling  and  unexpected  things — hovy  this 
man  answered  directly  and  frankly  the  questions  of  an  angel ; 
how  the  other  accepted  some  great  miracle  as  a  thing  of  course, 
and  only  to  be  considered  as  getting  him  food  or  water.  Why 
were  they  not  wholly  paralyzed  and  overwhelmed  with  wonder? 
why  did  they  not  instinctively  beg  for  time  to  comprehend  and 
realize  the  mystery  before  them  ? 

"  What  a  singular  coincidence  !"  said  Heatherleigh,  laughing, 
when  he  came  up.  "  I  was  just  going  to  speak  of  her  in  connec- 
tion with  your  marriage  topic.     Do  you  know  who  that  was?" 

"  The  lady  in  blue  and  white  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"  No,  I  don't." 

"  That,  Master  Apelles,  is  the  young  person  to  whom  Polly  and 
I  mean  to  hand  you  over  in  order  that  your  artistic  education  may 
be  completed.  That  is  she  whom  her  numerous  admirers  and 
victims  call  '  Bonnie  Lesley.'  " 

"  You  have  warned  me  effectively,"  I  replied. 

*'  That  may  have  been  a  mistake  of  mine,  from  an  artistit;  point 
of  view,"  he  said,  laughing.  "  But  perhaps  if  I  were  to  tell  you 
why  I  like  to  run  down  that  young  creature,  you  might  be  in- 
clined to  take  up  the  cudgels  for  her,  and  impound  me.  After 
all,  she  is  a  very  nice  sort  of  girl.  She  is  staying  at  the  Lewisons' 
at  present,  as  I  imagined  when  I  heard  her  sing  there.  I  fancy 
she  lives  there  chiefly  now.  I  told  her  the  service  I  wanted  of 
her  as  regards  you.  She  was  very  willing ;  and  hopes  you  will 
go  with  me  to  the  Lewisons'  house  on  Thursday  evening.  It  is 
only  one  of  their  ordinary  evenings — a?sthetics  and  mild  refresh- 
ments.    I  promised  you  would  come  with  me." 


52  KILMENY. 

I  looked  at  lilin  :  I  thought  he  was  joking;  but  he  was  not. 

"  One  or  two  young  men  about  town  come  in  evening  dress," 
he  continued  ;  "  but  Lewison  doesn't  care  about  that  element,  and 
discourages  it.  His  wife  likes  it,  for  the  sake  of  her  young-lady 
friends,  and  of  course  where  Bonnie  Lesley  is,  there  young  fools 
are  sure  to  be." 

"  What  did  she  do  to  you,"  I  said  to  him,  "  that  you  should 
be  so  bitter  about  her  ?" 

"  She  once  made  me  believe  that  she  had  a  heart ;  but  I  dis- 
covered afterwards  that  it  was  only  an  organ  with  two  openings, 
situated  in  a  cavity  of  the  chest,  for  the  convenience  of  the 
lungs." 

"  I  fancy  I  can  understand." 

"  No ;  don't  mistake  me  ;  Bonnie  Lesley  and  I  were  never 
lovers.  But  of  that  anon.  What  I  want  to  say  to  you  is  this: 
mind,  in  speaking  to  her,  not  to  ask  her  too  particularly  where 
she  has  lived — I  mean,  in  what  particular  place  she  was  brought 
up." 

"  Where  do  her  parents  live  ?" 

"  She  hasn't  any." 

"  11  er  relations,  then  ?" 

"  She  hasn't  any.  I  don't  think  she  ever  had  either  the  one  or 
the  other.  1  imagine  that  on  some  hushed,  warm  afternoon  in 
summer,  when  everything  was  lazy  and  quiet  and  solemn,  some- 
body down  in  some  still  valley  saw  a  small  angel,  dressed  in  blue 
and  white,  with  a  tiny  white  hat  and  a  blue  featlur,  drop  quietly 
down  from  the  clouds.  And  she  has  grown  np  to  be  Bonnie 
Lesley,  and  the  hat  has  grown  with  her.  Really  there  seems  to 
be  a  good  deal  of  vagueness  about  her  antecedents.  For  myself, 
I  only  know  that  she  is  acciiiainted  with  some  parts  of  France 
and  Germany.  Whoever  called  her  Bonnie  Lesley  must  have  sup- 
posed she  was  Scotch ;  but,  if  she  is,  she  must  take  uncommon 
pains  to  conceal  the  fact.  She  has  lier  notions  of  form  and  color, 
too,  has  that  young  woman.  Do  you  know  what  she  said  of 
you  ?" 

"  No." 

"Tliat  you  might,  with  proper  dressing,  resemble  either  Dante, 
Schiller,  or  Vandyke.  She  preferred  Vatidyke  herself;  and  I 
promised  to  get  you  to  buy  a  big  brown  beaver,  with  abroad  and 
dashintr  rim." 


IN  regent's  park.  53 

*'  Tell  me  honestly — did  you  or  she  speak  of  me  at  all  ?"  I  said. 

*'  I  give  you  my  word  of  honor  that  she  expects  to  see  you  at 
the  Lewisons'  on  Thursday  next." 

"  What  did  the  lady  who  was  with  her  say  ?" 

"  The  girl  in  black  ?  Nothing  particular.  By  the  way,  I  did 
not  catch  her  name  when  I  was  introduced  to  her." 

"  I  can  tell  you  that,"  I  said :  "  it  is  Miss  Hester  Burnham." 

"  What? — the  girl  who  has  got  the  big  house  down  in  that  val- 
ley you  are  constantly  talking  about  ?" 

"  Yes.  My  father  is  her  gamekeeper.  I  suppose  she,  too,  is 
staying  at  the  Lewisons',  and  I  dare  say  you  would  consider  it  rath- 
er a  good  joke  if  I  were  to  go  there  and  meet  her  on  equal  terms  !" 

"  Monsieur,  you  mistake.  When  you  enter  the  Esthetic  Grot- 
to you  leave  all  such  considerations  behind.  Besides,  what  does 
it  matter  to  you  whether  your  father  is  Miss  Burnham's  keeper, 
or  the  devil,  or  a  bishop  ?  You  are  an  artist.  I  have  given  you 
the  royal  accolade.  You  are  the  equal  of  all  men  upon  the  earth, 
even  if  your  purse  be  rather  short,  and  your  reputation  nothing 
to  speak  of.  But  if  I  had  known  that  the  quiet  little  girl  was 
Miss  Burnham,  I  should  have  looked  at  her  attentively.  I  only 
know  that  she  had  singularly  fine  eyes,  and  a  soft  and  pretty  voice." 

I  was  unwilling  to  let  him  imagine  that  because  my  father  was 
a  gamekeeper  (though  even  that  suggested  the  propi-iety  of  my 
not  meeting  Miss  Burnham)  I  did  not  wish  to  go  to  the  Lewisons' 
house.  So  I  told  him  the  whole  story  of  that  visit  to  Burnham, 
which  was  yet  fresh  and  keen  in  my  memory.  When  I  had 
finished,  he  looked  at  me  curiously,  and  said — 

"  You  are  a  strange  creature.     I  can't  make  you  out." 

"  If  you  had  been  in  my  place,"  I  asked,  "  wouldn't  you  have 
felt  as  I  felt  ?" 

"  I  should  have  laughed  at  the  whole  affair.  I  should  not  be 
glowing  with  indignation  and  anger  and  wrath  as  you  are  now. 
Come,  suppose  we  go  to  Lewisons'  on  Thursday.  Suppose  we 
beg  Miss  Burnham  to  rebel  against  her  womanly  instincts,  and 
speak  the  truth  for  once.     Suppose  we  ask  her — " 

"  If  I  go,"  I  said  to  him  (while  I  felt  my  face  flush),  "  it  will 
be  to  meet  her  as  an  equal." 

"  Bravely  spoken,"  said  he,  '*  but  you  forget  one  thing :  it  is 
very  unlikely  she  will  be  there.  The  Lewisons'  house  is  not  a 
hotel," 


54 


CHAPTER  VI. 

THE    .ESTHETIC    GROTTO. 

But  long  before  Thursday  evening  my  courage  failed  me.  1 
had  had  wild  ideas  of  revenge  and  self-assertion,  and  all  the  rest 
of  it ;  but  not  even  these  would  permit  me  to  be  guilty  of  an  im- 
pertinence ;  and  an  impertinence  I  certainly  considered  the  notion 
of  my  being  present  as  a  guest  in  any  house  where  Miss  Burnham 
was  also  a  guest.     I  told  Heatherlcigh  I  would  not  go. 

In  the  mean  time  I  applied  myself  earnestly  to  whatever  snatch- 
es of  work  he  allowed  me  to  undertake.  Looking  back  at  that 
strange  probationary  period,  I  can  scarcely  say  whether  I  had 
grown  bold  enough  to  consider  certain  dreams  of  mine  possible 
of  realization,  or  whether  it  was  only  the  fever  of  impatience  and 
desire,  begotten  of  a  certain  extravagant  purpose  that  had  nothing 
to  do  with  art,  which  drove  me  into  constant  and  painful  effort 
to  leap  over  necessary  study  and  achieve  definite  results.  Heath- 
erleigh  looked  at  the  matter  from  a  practical  point  of  view. 

"  You  are  still  laboring  under  the  habit  you  aocpiired  in  Weavle's 
place,"  he  said,  "of  thinking  that  you  must  constantly  be  work- 
ing. Why,  absolute  idleness  is  the  very  commissariat  of  art — that 
fine,  receptive  calm  in  which  you  are  storing  up,  unconsciously, 
experiences  and  reflections  for  future  use.  You  work  as  if  Weavle 
were  constantly  at  your  elbow." 

Polly  Whistler  took  great  interest  in  my  progress,  and  used 
to  tell  the  most  audacious  lies  in  tlie  form  of  criticism  upon  my 
labors.  I  was  so  very  grateful  for  her  encouragement  and  kind- 
ness, that  I  was  nearly  falling  in  love  with  her.  But  Polly  liad 
a  fine,  practical  way  with  her,  which  not  only  instantly  detected 
any  such  tentative  lapse  from  the  explicit  relations  existing  be- 
tween her  and  the  people  around  her,  but  also  set  the  matter 
straight  again  with  a  surprising  and  business-like  swiftness.  Early 
love,  of  this  nebulous  and  uncertain  kind,  thrives  upon  secrecy, 
but  is  killed  by  frankness;  and  Polly  was  uncommonly  frank. 

"I'll  be  a  mother  to  you,  if  you  like,"  she  said  to  me,  in  her 


THE    .ESTHETIC    GROTTO.  55 

merry  way,  "  but  you  mustn't  fall  in  love  with  me,  because  then 
you  would  get  angry  because  I  didn't  fall  in  love  with  you.  It 
seems  to  me  a  pity  that  men  and  women  can't  be  friends  with 
each  other  without  falling  in  love  and  spoiling  it  all,  becoming 
jealous  and  cantankerous  and  exacting.  Everybody  should  take 
a  lesson  from  Mr.  Heatherleigh  and  me." 

I  looked  up  at  her  as  she  uttered  the  last  words,  and  she  inad- 
vertently dropped  her  eyes. 

To  return,  however,  to  the  proposed  meeting  at  Lewison's 
house.  On  the  Wednesday,  Heatherleigh  brought  me  a  positive 
assurance  that  Miss  Burnham  could  not  be  present  on  the  follow- 
ing evening,  and  also  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Lewison's  cards,  with  their 
compliments.     In  the  end  I  went. 

This  was  my  first  introduction  into  anything  like  society ;  and 
for  a  time  I  could  scarcely  tell,  myself,  what  my  first  impressions 
were.  The  chief  thing  that  struck  me,  I  think,  was  the  extreme 
quiet  and  repose  of  the  people.  They  seemed  to  live  in  a  deli- 
cate atmosphere,  which  caused  small  sensations  to  appear  large  to 
them.  They  never  had  to  emphasize  what  they  had  to  say  ;  and 
there  was  a  general  apprehension  of  minute  points  and  appear- 
ances which  made  me  a  little  nervous.  The  very  air  of  the  room 
seemed  to  be  fine  and  watchful  and  critical. 

Mr  Lcwison  was  a  tall,  fair  man,  with  a  partially  bald  head, 
dark  blue  eyes,  and  a  red  moustache.  He  had  a  peculiarly  bland, 
easy  manner  about  him  which  puzzled  me ;  because  it  seemed  to 
lift  him  so  entirely  above  that  sphere  of  struggle  and  competi- 
tion and  passionate  impulses  with  which  I  was  familiar.  I  think 
he  had  been  in  business ;  at  any  rate,  he  was  now  living  as  a 
private  gentleman,  his  chief  amusement  being  the  making  of  his 
house  an  open  resort  for  all  sorts  of  artistic  and  literary  persons. 

When  Heatherleigh  and  I  entered  the  large  and  brilliant  room 
there  were  not  more  than  a  dozen  people  there.  Miss  Lesley  was 
at  the  piano,  singing  a  rather  commonplace  ballad  in  her  splendid 
style.  She  had  an  excellent  soprano  voice,  tenderly  expressive, 
and  perfectly  cultivated.  There  was  a  gentleman  by  her  side,  in 
evening  dress,  who  was  turning  over  the  leaves  of  music  for  her. 

I  was  introduced  to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Lewison,  and  found  myself 
surprisingly  at  ease  with  both.  Indeed,  I  found  at  this  time  that, 
however  apprehensive  I  miglit  be  about  meeting  any  stranger,  I 
had  no  sooner  begun  to  enter  into  conversation  than  my  embar- 


66  KILMENV. 

rassment  vanished.     Besides,  all  tlie  responsibilities  and  formal- 
ities lay  upon  Heatherleigh. 

AVhen  Miss  Lesley  had  finished  sinoino;  she  took  the  arm  of 
the  gentleman  who  had  been  waiting  upon  her,  and  crossed  the 
room  towards  us.  I  saw  with  dismay  that  her  companion  was 
Mr.  Alfred  Burnham.  Instinctively  I  glanced  around  the  room 
again  to  see  that  she  whom  I  had  feared  to  meet  was  not  there. 
No ;  there  was  no  one  even  resembling  her. 

The  young  man  with  the  hook  nose,  the  cold  gray  eyes,  and 
closely  cropped  yellowish  hair  moved  off  to  another  part  of  the 
room,  and  Miss  Lesley  was  left  talking  to  Heatherleigh.  Then 
Heatherleigh  introduced  me  to  her ;  and,  somehow  or  other,  I 
found  myself  seated  beside  her  on  a  couch,  turning  over  a  collec- 
tion of  proof-engravings. 

I  had  listened  to  her  voice  but  for  a  few  moments,  when  I  be- 
gan to  wonder  how  Heatherleigh  could  have  spoken  so  unfairly 
of  the  girl.  Was  it  to  surprise  me  with  the  contrast?  She  had 
a  face  that,  in  spite  of  its  full-grown  and  developed  beauty — its 
broad,  fine  tints,  and  dazzling  complexion — was  almost  childlike 
in  its  simplicity  of  expression  :  large,  blue  eyes  of  great  tender- 
ness of  color  and  depth ;  a  full  little  mouth,  rosy  and  plump  ;  a 
somewhat  low,  smooth,  Grecian  brow  ;  and  great  masses  of  yellow 
hair,  that  were  artistically  arranged  and  decorated  with  a  broad 
band  of  violet  velvet.  She  wore  a  low  white  dress,  with  a  train 
of  heavy  violet  satin,  and  there  was  around  her  white  neck  a  thick 
gold  serpent,  whose  diamond  head  and  ruby  eyes,  lying  upon  her 
bosom,  scarcely  rose  and  fell  as  she  breathed  or  laughed.  That  this 
glorious  creature  should  waste  upon  me — upon  me  alone — a  sin- 
gle thought  or  word  would  at  another  time  have  seemed  incred- 
ibly absurd  to  me ;  but  under  the  spell  of  her  voice — which  had 
a  scarcely  perceptible  lisp  that  was  singularly  quaint  and  attractive 
— 1  forgot  all  considerations  of  whatever  kind,  and  went  on  talk- 
ing to  her  as  if  I  were  in  a  dream,  only  to  hear  the  sound  of  her 
voice  in  reply. 

She  asked  me  if  I  liked  the  song  she  had  sung.  Tiiere  was 
but  one  answer  to  the  question  :  perhaps  I  did  not  limit  my  ex- 
j)ressions  as  I  ought  to  have  done. 

"  I  am  so  glad,"  she;  said,  with  a  pretty  smile  in  her  eyes,  as 
she  played  with  an  ivory  paper-knife  that  she  held  in  her  tiny 
white  fingers,  "because  here,  you  know,  th<y  don't  care  for  any- 


THE    .ESTHETIC    GROTTO.  57 

tiling  but  classical  music.  I  feci  very  guilty  when  I  sing  any- 
thing that  is  simple  and  commonplace,  and  I  am  so  pleased  to 
discover  that  some  particular  one  here  or  there  has  been  enjoying 
it.     You  like  ballad-music,  then  ?" 

"  I  never  heard  any  kind  of  music,  played  on  any  kind  of  in- 
strument, that  I  did  not  like,"  I  said,  enthusiastically,  but  with 
absolute  truth — "  so  long  as  it  was  in  tune.  1  am  like  a  con- 
firmed drunkard,  who  will  drink  anything  that  will  intoxicate 
him  ;  and  the  effect  that  music  has  upon  me  is  more  intoxication 
than  anything  else." 

"  But  Mr.  Heatherleigh  says  you  are  an  artist.  Why,  with  such 
a  passion  for  music,  did  you  not  become  a  musician  V 

"  I  am  neither  an  artist  nor  a  musician,  nor  anything  else  that 
produces,"  I  said ;  "  but  there  is  no  sort  of  art  that  I  do  not  en- 
joy. As  for  being  a  musician,  I  dare  say  I  should  keep  in  tune 
if  I  played  on  the  drum." 

"  But  if  you  enjoy  every  kind  of  music,"  she  said,  with  a  kind 
of  childish  wonder,  "  what  is  the  value  of  a  compliment  from 
you  ?  Perhaps  you  thought  the  song  I  sung  rather  stupid,  al- 
though you  like  the  jingle  of  the  music." 

"  Well,  I  did,"  I  said. 

"But  you  must  prefer  some  kind  of  music  to  other  kinds." 

"  I  should  have  preferred  hearing  you  sing  a  German  song  that 
you  once  sung  when  I  was  listening  outside  at  the  railings." 

"  Ah,  do  you  like  German  music  ?"  she  said,  turning  her  large 
and  beautiful  eyes  upon  my  face,  and  blinding  me.  "  I  love  it. 
I  think  it  is  charming." 

Now  "charming"  is  not  exactly  the  adjective  which  I  should 
have  applied  to  German  music.  I  never  could  see  prettiness  in 
the  sea.  But  then  Miss  Lesley  was  a  very  young  girl ;  and  very 
young  girls  are  not  always  apt  at  choosing  the  proper  word  to 
describe  their  emotion  or  opinion.  If  you  had  looked  at  the  per- 
fect flower  of  her  face,  at  its  changing  lights  and  tenderness,  you 
would  have  seen  that  the  pathos  and  utter  misery  of  the  old  Ger- 
man ballads,  and  the  mystic  grandeur  of  the  German  classical 
music,  were  somehow  themselves  expressed  there. 

We  talked  of  all  manner  of  things — of  the  pictures  before  us, 
of  artistic  subjects  generally,  of  the  people  in  the  room.  On  the 
last  point,  she  was  very  confidential ;  describing  not  only  the  one 
or  two  celebrities  present,  but  also  her  own  impressions  of  them. 

eg 


58  KILMENY. 

What  chiefly  struck  me  about  her  was  her  childlike  desire  to  ob- 
tain information.  Once  or  twice  I  turned  and  regarded  her,  to 
see  if  she  were  making  fun ;  but  no — the  large,  infantine  blue 
eyes  still  begged  for  the  knowledge  she  had  demanded.  She  was 
so  anxious  to  acquire  a  correct  taste  in  artistic  matters,  she  said. 
She  did  not  wish  to  appear  stupid ;  and  she  would  be  very  grate- 
ful if  I  would  privately  give  her  some  little  assistance. 

"  You  see  how  I  am  situated,"  she  said,  as  slie  pretended  to 
turn  over  the  engravings  which  neither  of  us  heeded.  "  I  meet 
here  men  and  women  who  arc  profoundly  learned  in  subjects  of 
which  I  know  nothing.  I  dare  not  speak  of  these  things  and 
confess  my  ignorance,  or  they  would  look  upon  me  as  a  barba- 
rian. Now,  with  regard  to  old  pictures,  the  only  rule  I  have  been 
able  to  make  out  for  myself  is  to  admire  whatever  is  very  dirty, 
very  ugly,  and  indistinguishable.  In  crockery — er\ame\\ed  faience, 
don't  they  call  it  ? — in  china  and  glass,  and  such  things,  I  find  my 
only  chance  is  to  seize  upon  what  is  more  than  usually  absurd  and 
extravagant.  If  the  lizards,  frogs,  and  eels  on  the  plate  are  very 
ugly  and  ridiculous,  then  one  is  safe  in  praising  it;  and  if  the 
drinking-glass  be  dirty,  of  a  bad  shape,  and  useless,  it  is  certain  to 
be  some  rare  specimen  of  Venetian  or  some  such  ware.  I  find  it 
the  same  in  other  things.  If  one  is  turning  over  a  collection 
of  ferns,  for  instance,  one  may  be  certain  that  tlie  ugliest  and 
most  insignificant  are  the  rarest.  Of  course,  it  is  only  my  igno- 
rance that  makes  me  think  so,  and  I  should  be  so  grateful  to  any 
one  who  would  kindly  explain  to  me  the  real  beauty  of  artistic 
marvels.  But  then,  it  would  have  to  be  quite  secret — this  in- 
struction. Wlien  grown-up  people  learn  to  dance,  you  know, 
they  are  very  much  ashamed  of  the  process,  and  make  it  quite 
private.  Suppose  you  were  to  go  and  bring  me  the  black  thing 
that  Mr.  Lewison  has  just  put  down — on  the  top  shelf  of  that 
Chinese  whatnot." 

It  was  a  Japanese  jug  in  bronze,  with  a  curious  handle,  and  a 
long,  slender  spout.  The  design  of  the  jug  was  very  graceful, 
and  the  workmanship  renuirkably  delicate.  I  fetclied  it,  and 
showed  it  to  Miss  Lesley,  who  regarded  it  with  that  air  of  j)retty 
wonder  which  was  almost  the  typical  expression  of  her  face. 

"  Shall  we  go  into  the  room  opposite  ?"  she  said.  "  They  use 
it  a.s  a  sort  of  picture-gallery,  and  I  suppose  you  have  not  seen 
the  picturi's," 


THE    .f:STHETIC    GROTTO.  59 

She  took  my  arm,  and  we  left.  The  large  room  Ave  found  to 
be  lit  up,  although  there  was  no  one  in  it.  There  was  an  im- 
posing array  of  pictures  all  around,  and  one  of  them  especially 
having  caught  my  eye  as  I  entered,  we  went  towards  it.  I  can 
remember  only  that  it  was  the  figure  of  a  young  man,  who  sat 
dejected  and  alone  amid  a  curious  flood  of  golden  light.  The 
whole  character  of  the  painting  was  Greek ;  and  it  was  apparent- 
ly decorative  in  treatment.  Despite  the  obvious  mannerism  of  it, 
it  was  a  work  of  singular  power. 

"  Isn't  it  very  pretty  ?"  she  said,  with  the  same  expression  of 

gentle  wonder  on  her  face.     "  It  was  done  by  ,  who  is  a 

great  friend  of 's,  the  poet,  whom  you  will  see  here  to-night, 

most  likely.  It  represents  some  story,  Mr.  Heatherleigh  told  me  ; 
but  he  did  not  say  what  it  was." 

"  I  know  the  story,"  I  said,  as  soon  as  I  heard  the  name  of  the 
young  poet,  who  had  then  just  made  his  appearance,  and  who  was 
puzzling  the  sober-minded  critics  with  the  reckless  impertinences 
and  wilfulnesses  of  his  unmistakable  genius. 

"  Will  you  tell  it  to  me  ?"  she  said,  sitting  down  upon  a  couch. 

"  How  can  I  translate  it  into  prose  ?"  I  answered.  "  However, 
the  story  is  of  a  young  Scandinavian  poet  who  dies.  You  find 
him  in  the  world  of  spirits,  wandering  about  moody  and  discon- 
tented. Odin  comes  to  him,  and  asks  him  why  he  complains. 
He  says  it  is  because  the  maiden  whom  he  loved  on  earth  must 
now  have  grown  old  and  gray  and  wrinkled,  and  when  she,  too, 
comes  into  heaven,  he  will  not  be  able  to  recognize  her. 

"  '  Does  she  love  you  still  ?'  asks  the  god. 

"  '  Her  love  is  like  mine,'  says  the  poet ;  '  it  is  the  same  always.' 

"  So  Odin  sends  him  down  to  earth,  and  bids  him  seek  out  his 
old  love.  He  wanders  about,  and  cannot  find  her.  At  last  he 
enters  a  chamber,  and  finds  there  the  dead  body  of  an  old  and 
wrinkled  woman,  and  they  tell  him  that  the  dead  woman  is  the 
woman  he  loved.  At  first  he  is  sorrowful,  and  then  he  is  glad ; 
for  he  says,  '  I  still  love  her ;  and  now  I  shall  know  her  when  I 
get  back  to  heaven.'  So  he  bids  farewell  to  earth  again,  and  pre- 
pares to  meet  his  love  grown  old  and  careworn.  But  he  is  just 
entering  heaven  when  he  sees  before  him,  with  a  smile  on  her 
face,  the  very  maiden  whom  he  knew  in  his  youth.  She  comes 
forward,  and  takes  him  by  the  hand ;  but  he  is  half-afraid,  for  he 
thinks  that  Odin  has  played  him  a  trick. 


60  KILMENY. 

"  'Are  yon  really  my  little  Frida,  whom  I  loved  long  ago?' 
"  '  T  am  your  little  Frida  ;  don't  you  know  me  V  she  asks. 
"  'But  I  saw  you  lying  dead;  and  you  were  old  and  gray,' 
''  'And  don't  you  know,'  she  says,  '  that  the  gods  have  decreed 
that  whoever  loves  truly  shall  always  be  young?     I  shall  be  al- 
ways to  you  your  little  Frida,  whom  you  loved  long  ago.' " 

When  I  had  finished  my  poor  effort  at  conveying  a  notion  of 
the  story,  she  sighed  gently,  and  said — 

"  How  very  pretty  !     l)o  you  know  many  of  these  stories?" 
"  No,"  I  said,  "  for  that  is  the  story  of  a  modern  poem ;  but 
old  Scandinavian  and  German  poetry  is  full  of  such  legends." 

"  I  should  like  to  listen  to  them  forever,"  she  said,  with  a  sort 
of  pleased  curiosity  in  her  eyes. 

Then  we  rose,  and  made  a  tour  of  the  pictures.  Her  remarks 
puzzled  and  perplexed  mc.  It  was  not  that  she  made  any  great 
mistakes,  or  talked  nonsense;  but  that  she  seemed  to  have  the 
same  appreciation  of  every  quality  of  excellence.  Nothing  seemed 
to  affect  her  beyond  a  certain  point ;  and  everything  seemed  to 
reach  that  point.  We  crossed  a  very  pretty  hearth-rug,  and  I 
drew  her  attention  to  the  quiet  and  artistic  pattern  of  it — so  dif- 
ferent from  the  staring  bunches  of  red  roses  and  wliite  ribbon 
which  I  had  seen  in  upholsterers'  windows.  Well,  she  appeared - 
to  be  as  much  struck  l>y  that  as  by  a  small  moonlight  scene  of 
Turner's,  which  was  a  wonder  of  idealized  and  yet  literal  faithful- 
ness. Sometimes,  when  a  particular  picture  seemed  very  striking 
or  powerful  to  me,  I  almost  begged  her  to  be  a  little  more  enthu- 
siastic in  her  admiration,  and  then  she  always  was — in  words. 
]]y  this  time  we  had  grown  quite  familiar  with  each  other.  She 
confessed  afterwards  that  she  was  astonished  by  my  easy  frank- 
ness ;  but  then  I  knew  nothing  of  tlie  reserve  that  society  de- 
mands, and  she  undoubtedly  failed  to  impress  it  upon  mc.  She 
so  little  overawed  me  tliat  I  began  to  wonder  what  most  affected 
her — on  what  side  of  her  character  she  was  most  receptive  and 
impressionable.  For  pictures,  it  was  clear,  she  cared  little;  or, 
rather,  she  had  a  general  liking,  w  liicli  may  have  been  indiscrim- 
inate through  imperfect  education.  But  slic  was  never  moved  by 
a  picture ;  and  1  gathered  from  her  admissions  that  she  had  no 
great  preference  for  any  kind  of  music.  I  wondered  whether,  on 
hearing  Mozart's  Sonata  in  A  sharp,  or  one  of  Mendelssolm's 
splendifl  choruses,  she  wouM  only  express  a  faint  surj)rise,  as  she 


THE    .ESTHETIC    GROTTO.  &1 

did  on  meeting  a  mastei-piece  in  painting.  Or  was  it  tliat  all  the 
artistic  side  of  her  nature  was  cold  and  shallow,  while  in  matters 
of  personal  feeling  she  was  receptive  and  warm  and  deep  ? 

Perhaps  some  temporary  indisposition  might  have  blunted  her 
artistic  perceptions.  I  have  noticed  that  people  who  were  ready 
to  overpraise  mediocre  work,  and  be  quite  enthusiastic  about 
good  work,  when  they  entered  a  picture-exhibition,  passed  over 
with  indifference  or  cold  distaste  the  very  best  pictures  when  they 
drew  near  the  end  of  their  visit — so  powerful  an  agent  is  phys- 
ical fatigue  in  destroying  the  keenness  of  the'  aesthetic  sense. 
Perhaps  Miss  Lesley  had  a  headache,  or  was  annoyed  by  the  non- 
receipt  of  a  letter;  and  only  out  of  courtesy  expressed  a  vague 
acquiescence  when  I  ventured  to  praise  a  picture. 

At  all  events,  on  the  emotional  side,  no  one  could  question  the 
generous  width  and  tenderness  of  her  nature.  To  look  into  her 
eyes  was  to  kill  doubt.  The  warm  love-light  of  them  seemed  to 
thaw  reserve,  and  draw  you  closer  to  her.  You  could  not  help 
speaking  in  a  low  voice  to  her ;  you  could  not  help,  if  you  looked 
at  her  eyes,  unbosoming  your  most  secret  confidences  and  beg- 
ging for  a  return  of  this  friendly  frankness.  She  seemed  to  have 
around  her  an  atmosphere  of  warmth  and  kindliness — an  atmos- 
phere silent  and  delicious,  that  predisposed  you  to  waking  dreams. 
To  be  near  her  was  to  breathe  poetry  ;  and  yet,  when  you  re- 
garded the  statuesque  beauty  of  her  bust  and  neck  and  head,  the 
fine  play  of  color  and  light  in  her  complexion,  the  warm,  supple 
contour  of  her  face,  and  the  life  and  tenderness  of  her  eyes,  you 
were  puzzled  to  understand  why  this  glorious  woman  should,  even 
in  one  direction,  exhibit  a  hardness  or  thinness  of  character  that 
seemed  so  inconsistent  with  her  soft  and  stately  and  yielding 
beauty. 

I  was  recalled  to  myself  by  hearing  some  voices,  and  when  I 
looked  up  (we  had  again  sat  down,  and  I  was  listening  intently 
to  what  she  was  saying)  I  found  Heatherleigh's  eyes  fixed  on  me, 
with  a  peculiar,  mocking  expression  in  them.  He  had  been  led 
into  the  room  by  Mr.  Lewison,  who  was  talking  to  him  ;  but  when 
I  looked  up  he  was  quietly  regarding  us  both,  with  a  sardonic 
smile  on  his  face.  It  was  a  smile  that  seemed  to  me  to  have 
something  demoniacal  in  it.  Did  he  imagine,  then,  that  I  was  in- 
clined to  play  Faust  to  his  Mepbistopheles  ?  No  sooner  had  Miss 
Lesley  perceived  their  pi-esence  than   she  asked  me  to  take  her 


62  kiliSeny. 

iuto  the  other  apartment ;  I  gladly  consented,  and  so  we  walked 
across  the  room. 

A  little  incident  occurred  as  we  were  going  out. 
"Miss  Lesley,"  said  Mr.  Lewison,  "do  you  know  why,  accord- 
ing to  Mr.  Heatherleigh,  we  ought  to  be  thankful  that  we  are 
Christians  ?" 

"  No,"  she  said,  simply. 

"  Because,  if  we  were  not,  some  other  nation  would  probably 
try  to  make  us  Christians." 

She  uttered  a  musical  little  laugh  and  passed  on.  But  when  we 
had  got  outside  into  the  hall  she  said — 

"  I  do  dislike  conundrums.  I  never  discovered  the  fun  of  a 
conundrum  even  after  it  was  explained  to  me." 

"  But  that  isn't  quite  a  conundrum,"  I  said,  with  some  surprise  ; 
"he  means  that  the  process  of  being  made  a  Christian  against 
your  will  is  rather — " 

"  I  beg  you  not  to  waste  your  time  in  trying  to  ex})lain  a  joke 
to  me,"  she  said,  laughing,  but  still  with  the  most  obvious  candor 
and  honesty.  "  I  assure  you  I  never  could  understand  the  sim- 
plest of  them.  People  will  not  believe  me;  but  I  cannot  even 
understand  the  meaning  or  enjoyment  of  a  pun.  They  show  me 
that  they  say  two  things,  using  the  same  word  in  each ;  but  I 
don't  see  the  fun  of  it — I  don't  see  why  they  shouldn't  use  an- 
other word.  Don't  you  think  me  very  stupid?  Of  course,  I 
know  it  is  clever  to  make  a  pun;  but,  if  I  laugh  at  one,  it  is 
merely  as  a  compliment,  as  you  are  expected  to  admire  a  painting 
you  don't  care  for." 

Then  she  seemed  to  recall  herself,  shrugged  her  shoulders  slight- 
ly, and  laughed  the  pretty  little  laugh  again. 

"  There  are  some  people  one  cannot  lielj)  talking  freely  to ;  and 
perhaps  I  have  been  creating  in  your  mind  a  notion  that  1  am  a 
monster  of  ignorance  and  dulness.     Is  it  so?" 

Now  I  never  could  pay  a  compliment  to  a  woman.  If  1  liked 
her,  and  admired  this  or  that  in  her  character,  I  could  and  always 
did  become  enthusiastic,  and  was  in  nowise  loth  to  let  her  know 
my  exaggerated  oj)inion  of  her  excellences.  But  absolutely  to 
pay  a  compliment,  in  the  form  of  a  compliment,  to  a  woman  who 
drove  me  into  it — no.  I  remained  silent — perhaps  a  trifle  vexed 
that  I  could  not  easily  fence  off  the  question  as  any  one  accus- 
tomed to  the  small  word-warfare  of  society  iniifjit  easily  have  done. 


THE    ^ESTHETIC    GROTTO.  63 

Fortunately  we  were  just  entering  the  other  room ;  and  so  my 
embarrassment  was  partly  concealed. 

"  Why  she  has  come  after  all !"  exclaimed  my  companion. 

The  next  moment  1  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  small  darkly  dressed 
figure ;  and  I  knew  that  it  must  be  Miss  Burnham.  I  dared  not  look 
her  in  the  face — indeed,  I  scarcely  knew  what  I  did,  as  Bonnie  Lesley 
relinquished  my  arm  and  went  forward  to  greet  her  friend.  Was 
it  she  or  I  who  effected  the  separation  ?  I  only  know  that  I  walk- 
ed away,  without  once  turning  my  head  ;  but  I  heard  Hester  Burn- 
ham's  voice,  and  I  fancied  a  tall  gentleman  who  was  by  her  side 
must  be  Colonel  Burnham.  I  went  to  the  other  end  of  the  room, 
to  a  small  table  which  .stood  in  a  corner  and  was  covered  with 
works  in  terra  cotta,  and  there  I  busied  myself  partly  with  them 
and  partly  with  devising  some  means  of  escape.  I  had  no  time 
to  think  of  how  I  had  been  led  into  the  trap  ;  my  only  desire  was 
to  get  out  of  it.  It  was  clear  that  Miss  Burnham  had  arrived  un- 
expectedly ;  and  I  knew  that  in  any  case  Heatherleigh  would  not 
have  intentionally  deceived  me ;  so  there  was  nothing  for  it  but 
to  get  quickly  away  from  the  possible  inconveniences  and  annoy- 
ances of  this  ill  chance. 

I  could  not  walk  out  of  the  house  and  go  home,  without  offer- 
ing some  apology  or  explanation  to  Mr.  or  Mrs.  Lewison.  But  to 
get  out  of  the  room  was  my  first  consideration  ;  afterwards  I 
could  seek  Heatherleigh  and  Mr.  Lewison,  and  make  some  sort  of 
excuse. 

I  turned ;  and  there  they  were — those  eyes !  She  came  forward 
to  me — she  was  alone — and  held  out  her  hand.  Did  not  I  remem- 
ber the  exact  counterpart  of  this  little  scene,  happening  in  my 
mother's  room  long  ago?  There  was  the  same  friendly  light  in 
the  wonderful,  wise  eyes ;  there  was  the  same  queenly  ease  and 
grace  in  the  position  of  the  small  figure — the  same  tender  entreaty 
in  her  voice,  as  she  said — 

"  Have  you  not  forgiven  me  yet  ?" 

And  I  was  possessed  by  the  same  insufferable  sense  of  clumsi- 
ness and  boorishness,  as  I  stood  there  perplexed  and  embarrassed, 
wishing  the  floor  might  open  under  me.  Of  course,  I  knew  that 
she  wanted  no  forgiveness — that  she  did  not  imagine  she  had 
done  me  any  wrong.  I  knew  that  the  solicitude  of  her  voice  and 
the  look  in  her  eyes  were  but  part  of  that  polite  training  which 
people  in  her  position  necessarily  acquire  by  good  example  and 


64  KILMENY. 

tuition.  It  was  lior  sense  of  courtesy  that  made  her  come  as  a 
beggar  to  me,  and  endeavor  to  put  me  at  my  ease  by  assuming  an 
attitude  which  was  absurd.  If  she  had  accidentally  hurt  the  feel- 
ings of  her  coachman  or  cook,  would  she  not  have  been  equally 
desirous  to  rectify  the  wrong  ?  And  here  was  I,  not  able  to  meet 
her  on  equal  terms — not  knowing  in  what  fashion  to  put  aside 
this  inversion  of  our  natural  and  real  relations.  If  I  had  been 
educated  to  the  fine  sensitiveness  and  delicacy  with  which  well- 
bred  persons  treat  such  matters,  I  should  have  been  able  to  let  her 
know  that  I  understood  an  effort  of  courtesy  which  was  prompted 
by  her  sense  of  duty  to  herself — that  I  accepted  it  for  what  it  was 
worth,  and  held  my  position  in  the  affair  as  nothing  so  long  as 
she  was  satisfied — that  I  did  not  mistake  her  humility,  but  rather 
looked  upon  it  as  a  species  of  proper  pride. 

All  this  passed  hurriedly  and  confusedly  through  my  mind,  with 
the  painful  conviction  that  she  must  be  imagining  that  I  took  her 
words  literally.  Imagine  a  man  so  unacquainted  with  the  sym- 
bolic usages  of  society  as  to  take  the  phrase  "  your  obedient  ser- 
vant," coming  from  a  stranger,  as  literal,  and  presume  upon  it ! 
In  lesser  degree,  such  was  the  position  I  saw  that  I  should  assume 
in  Hester  Burnham's  eyes.     Finally,  I  blurted  out — 

"  You  are  very  kind.  Miss  Burnham.  But  you  know  that  you 
have  nothing  to  forgive.  Why  should  you  take  the  trouble  to 
recall  that — that  mistake?" 

She  looked  at  me  for  a  second ;  and  I  thanked  God  I  had  noth- 
ing to  conceal  from  those  calm  and  searching  strange  eyes. 

"  You  won't  shake  hands  with  me  ?"  she  said. 

It  seemed  to  me  that  she  sighed  as  she  spoke.  I  could  have 
flung  myself  at  her  feet,  had  I  not  been  vexed  at  the  same  moment 
with  the  thought  that  this  look  of  hers  was  another  bit  of  that 
delicate  by-j»lay  which  an  extreme  .social  courtesy  demanded. 
And  it  seemed  to  me  monstrous  that,  merely  to  preserve  her  per- 
sonal pride  in  being  just  and  courteous  to  all  persons,  she  should 
go  the  length  of  talking  to  me,  who  must  be  an  insignificant  noth- 
ing in  her  eyes,  in  a  way  that  otherwise  might  have  driven  a  man 
mad.  Had  she  but  meant  what  her  look  and  speech  and  tone 
conveyed,  I  would  have  said  to  her,  "  You  are  too  kind  to  one 
such  as  I  am.  What  can  I  give  you  in  return  for  your  kindness? 
I  have  nothing  of  any  value,  except  it  be  my  life :  if  it  will  but 
give  you  five  minutes'  pleasure,  I  will  lay  it  with  joy  at  your  feet." 


THE    ESTHETIC    GROTTO.  65 

Wliat  I  did  say  was  this — 

"  I  hope  you  won't  speak  of  it  any  more,  Miss  Burnham.  It  is 
too  small  a  matter  for  you  to  think  twice  about." 

And  as  I  did  not  consider  it  was  for  her  and  me  to  shake  liands, 
I  did  not  offer  her  my  hand. 

She  turned  away  then,  a  little  proudly  perhaps,  and  took  tlie 
arm  of  Mr.  Alfred  Burnham,  who  was  coming  towards  her.  Mrs. 
Lewison  came  and  sat  down  beside  me.  I  don't  know  wliat  she 
talked  about,  for  Hester  Burnham  was  now  singing. 

Then  I  left  the  room,  and  found  that  Heatherleigh,  with  one  or 
two  other  men,  were  in  the  smoking-room  up-stairs.  Heather- 
leigh was  in  an  excellent  humor ;  and  as  he  lay  in  a  chair,  with 
his  great  frame  stretched  out,  he  poured  forth  a  continual  stream 
of  quaint  and  odd  suggestions,  happy  repartees,  and  occasional 
sharp  sayings,  that  sometimes  hit  one  or  other  of  his  companions 
a  little  severely.  For  instance,  when  I  entered,  a  young  man,  elab- 
orately dressed  and  scented,  was  railing  against  women,  quoting 
ancient  authorities  to  prove  that  women  were  regarded  as  of  the 
brute  creation,  and  finally  declaring  that  he  believed  them  to  be  a 
superior  species  of  monkey.  Heatherleigh  was  irritated,  I  could 
see ;  and  no  sooner  had  the  philosopher  advanced  this  opinion  of 
his,  than  Heatherleigh,  with  a  sharp  glance,  said — 

"  That  is  why  you  don't  marry,  I  suppose — fearing  the  ties  of 
consanguinity.'' 

Now  there  was  a  good  deal  more  brutality  than  wit  about  this 
remark ;  but  I  constantly  observed  that,  on  this  one  subject  of 
woman,  Heatherleigh  never  would  suffer  in  his  presence  the  little 
affectations  of  cynicism  which  are  common  in  ordinary  talk.  On 
any  other  topic  it  was  absolutely  impossible  to  stir  him  into  any- 
thing like  a  temper.  If  you  flatly  contradicted  every  position  he 
took  up,  and  went  dead  against  his  most  favorite  opinions,  he 
would  lie  with  his  head  up  in  the  air,  and  a  quiet  smile  on  his 
face,  as  if  be  were  balancing  your  theory  alongside  his  own  on 
the  point  of  his  nose.  He  would  play  with  your  opinion  as  he 
played  with  his  own,  and  would  put  it  into  comical  lights  with  an 
easy  grace  and  wit  which  were  irresistible,  because  they  were  the 
offspring  of  a  fine  fancy  and  a  tender  disposition.  You  might 
tickle  him  all  over,  and  he  would  only  smile  ;  but  when  you  spoke 
sneeringly  of  women  (as  many  of  his  bachelor  artist  acquaintances 
were  inclined  to  du)   you  pricked  his  eye,  and  then  he  would 


66  KILMENV. 

spring  up  and  deal  you  a  blow  witli  the  utmost  savageiy  of  wliicli 
he  was  capable. 

I  wanted  him  to  go  home;  but  a  message  came  at  this  moment 
to  the  effect  that  sup])er  was  ready.  Heatherleigli  insisted  on  my 
staying ;  because,  he  said,  Bonnie  Lesley  had  complained  to  him 
that  I  had  run  away  from  her,  and  because  she  expected  me  to 
take  her  in  to  supper. 

"  Is  there  anything  particularly  laughable  in  that  ?"  I  asked, 
seeing  that  there  was  a  curious  smile  on  his  face. 

He  looked  at  me  for  a  moment. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  "  men  like  to  see  other  men  innocent  and 
gullible,  for  it  flatters  their  own  astuteness.  Of  course,  too,  it 
multiplies  their  cliances  of  existence.  But  you  are  so  very,  very 
believing  and  simple,  Ted,  that  you  are  a  positive  wonder.  The 
Midianitish  woman  has  already  captured  you,  merely  by  staring 
at  you." 

I  was  very  vexed  to  find  myself  incapable  of  replying  to  his 
raillery  ;  but  it  was  on  Miss  Lesley's  account  that  I  was  vexed.  It 
seemed  to  me  unfair  that  lleatherleigh  should,  even  in  joke,  talk 
of  Bonnie  Lesley  as  of  some  interested  and  deceitful  woman,  and 
I  could  not  help  recalling  my  suspicion  that  something  underlay 
this  fun — that  Heatherleigli  had  some  cause  to  feel  spiteful  against 
her,  and  was  thus  revenging  himself  in  a  petty  and  unworthy  way. 
Nor  was  this  impression  lessened  by  some  chance  remarks  made 
by  Miss  Lesley  herself,  as  I  sat  next  her  at  supper. 

"  I  don't  believe,"  she  said,  "  that  artists  have  souls.  I  believe 
that  artists  and  actors  and  authors — all  the  people  who  liave  to 
live  by  art  of  any  kind — sell  their  soul  to  the  pul)lic,  and  leave 
none  of  it  for  home  use.  They  can  assume  various  characters, 
and  pretend  to  have  a  regard  for  this  or  that,  but  it  is  only  a 
pretence.  They  are  empty  inside.  They  have  neither  a  soul  nor 
a  heart — they  have  sold  both  to  the  public,  and  live  upon  the  re- 
sult.    Oh !  I  know  it." 

"  Do  you  mean —  ?" 

"  Look  at  Mr.  Heatherleigh,"  she  continued.  "  He  could  act 
being  in  love  with  any  woman,  and  she  might  believe  him,  and 
yet  I  am  certain  that  his  profession  has  taken  it  out  of  his  power 
to  b(!  seriously  and  honestly  afFectionate  towards  anvbody  in  the 
world." 

"You  arc  (jiiite  mistaken,  then,"  I  <:i]t\.      "  You  will  meet  witli 


THE    ESTHETIC    GROTTO.  67 

very  few  men  who  are  as  generous  and  disinterested  and  affection- 
ate as  Heatlierleigli." 

"  Oh !  I  am  so  glad  to  hear  you  say  that,"  she  replied,  with 
that  air  of  pretty  wonder  which  was  so  irritating,  for  it  left  you 
in  doubt  as  to  whether  she  understood  or  believed  or  cared  for 
what  you  had  been  saying. 

But  it  seemed  to  me  that  she  knew,  or  fancied  she  knew,  some- 
thing more  of  Heatherleigh  than  she  chose  to  express,  and  I  hoped 
that  my  true  and  honest  friend  had  not  suffered  by  some  mis- 
chance in  her  estimation.  Indeed,  I  ventured  to  press  my  opinion 
on  the  point,  for  it  seemed  to  me  almost  painful  that  these  two, 
who  had  so  much  that  was  beautiful  and  lovable  about  them, 
should  be  separated  by  some  misunderstanding.  She  listened  to 
all  I  had  to  say,  and  appeared  deeply  interested.  Nor  had  I  any 
desire  to  cut  short  my  speech,  for  it  was  an  indescribable  pleasure 
to  me  to  watch  everything  I  said  reflected  sympathetically  in  the 
large  and  expressive  eyes.  The  various  phases  of  attention  and 
deprecation  and  astonishment  that  passed  over  them  were  so  sin- 
gularly beautiful.  But  a  quiet  astonishment  was  their  normal  ex- 
pression, and  it  was  so  far  normal  that  it  seemed  to  answer  what 
you  were  saying,  when  she  herself  was  thinking  of  something  else. 
She  appeared  to  have  some  curiosity  to  hear  what  you  said,  and 
every  new  sentence  seemed  to  convey  another  pretty  little  surprise 
to  her,  but  in  time  you  began  to  see  that  all  your  efforts  to  inter- 
est her  only  awoke  the  same  result.  It  was  not  that  she  was  pre- 
occupied or  absent.  But  she  seemed  so  contented  with  herself  (as 
surely  she  had  a  right  to  be),  that  she  cared  only  for  the  pleasure 
of  sitting  still,  and  being  tickled  by  small  novelties  of  informa- 
tion. I  grew  to  wonder  whether,  if  a  lightning-bolt  shot  past  her, 
and  split  the  mantel-piece  beyond,  she  would  do  more  than  turn 
the  big,  child-like  eyes  upon  the  place,  and  regard  it  with  a  bright 
and  pleased  curiosity. 

On  our  way  home  Heatherleigh  did  not  choose  to  speak  about 
Miss  Lesley,  and  I  was  rather  glad  of  it.  But  he  questioned  me 
about  Hester  Burnham,  and  I  told  him  minutely  and  accurately 
everything  that  had  occurred. 

"  You  are  a  perpetual  conundrum  to  me,"  he  said ;  "  I  can't 
make  you  out.  I  never  saw  such  exaggerated  self-depreciation 
joined  to  such  insufferable  pride." 


68 


CHAPTER  Vir. 

SOME     OLD     FRIENDS. 

I  FEAR  it  will  be  impossible  for  nie  to  convey  to  the  reailei"  any 
sense  of  my  great  enjoyment  when  it  first  began  to  dawn  upon 
me  that  I  was  really  of  use  to  Heatherleigh.  Those  who  have 
been  delicately  brought  up,  with  wide  possibilities  around  them, 
with  ease  in  money  matters,  and  innumerable  avenues  of  pleasur- 
able activity  lying  in  front  of  them,  cannot  understand  how  hard 
and  gloomy  and  dismal  was  the  pall  which  had  hung  over  my 
life,  and  tlie  presence  of  which  had  always  seemed  to  be  inevita- 
ble. And  now  there  was  a  rent  overhead,  and  a  stirring  of  free 
wind ;  and  a  ray  of  Heaven's  own  sunlight  fell  upon  me,  and 
found  me  without  words  to  express  my  gratitude. 

Heatherleigh,  in  his  lazy  way,  used  to  make  fun  of  me  (in  or- 
der to  protect  himself)  whenever  I  ventured  to  hint  of  the  debt  I 
owed  him.  Generous  to  a  fault,  he  shrank  with  an  exceeding 
sensitiveness  from  being  considered  generous,  and  you  could  not 
have  made  him  more  uncomfortable  tlian  by  sliowing  him  what 
you  thought  of  his  goodness.  So  I  nursed  my  great  debt  to- 
wards him  in  my  heart ;  and  wondered  if  ever  1  should  have  the 
chance  of  revealing  my  respect  and  admiration  and  affection  for 
this  good  man.  I  used  to  tliink  that  if  he  and  J  were  to  love 
the  same  woman,  and  she  loved  me,  I  shtiuld  leave  her,  for  his 
sake. 

"  What  an  irritating  fellow  you  are!"  he  said  to  me,  one  day, 
wlien  I  was  beseeching  him  to  go  on  with  some  work,  that  1 
might  get  something  to  do.  "  Why  can't  you  take  life  easily  ? 
Nobody  will  thank  you — certainly  not  I — f(U-  worrying  yourself 
to  death." 

"But  I  cannot  lielp  it,"  I  said.  "  Weasel  put  tlie  notion  into 
my  blood — and  it  will  always  remain  in  it — that  I  ought  never  to 
be  a  moment  idle  in  working-hours.  I  can't  help  it.  I  fee/ 
wretched  unless  when  1  am  working;  and  if  I  sit  talking  to  you 
I  have  an  uneasy  feeling  that  some  one  may  open  the  door,  glide 


SOME    OLD    FRIENDS.  69 

in  on  slippers,  and  scowl  and  scold.  I  never  enjoy  taking  a 
walk  in  the  daytime — T  expect  to  see  some  one  somewhere 
who  will  ask  me  why  I  am  doing  nothing  while  all  men  are 
working." 

"  You  are  like  some  unfortunate  wretch  who  has  been  all 
his  life  in  prison,  and  who  sickens  and  dies  in  free  air  for  want 
of  his  ordinary  employment  of  scraping  the  wall  with  his  finger- 
nail." 

"  This  morning,  coming  down  here  at  half-past  ten,  I  saw  Wea- 
sel in  the  street,  and  I  half  expected  him  to  come  up  and  ask  why 
the  devil  I  was  so  late,  and  if  I  wasn't  ashamed  to  be  cheating 
mv  master.  Just  now,  I'd  much  rather  work  than  sit  talking 
like  this." 

"  Confound  you,  do  you  think  I  am  going  to  pander  to  your 
diseased  appetite  ?  If  you  must  work,  work  at  home,  and  don't 
bother  me." 

"  I  have  been  working  at  home." 

Then  I  told  him  all  about  it.  I  had  been  trying  a  picture  on 
my  own  account  for  some  months.  I  began  it  in  the  early  part 
of  the  year,  and,  as  the  daylight  widened,  I  rose  earlier  and  ear- 
lier, until  now  I  got  between  five  and  six  hours  at  it  every  morn- 
ing before  I  hurriedly  swallowed  my  breakfast.  I  used  to  get  up 
at  four,  paint  until  ten,  and  then  eat  something  or  other  and  be 
down  at  Heatherleigh's  studio  by  half-past.  There  were  many 
reasons  why  I  did  not  wish  Heatherleigh  to  know  about  my  la- 
boring with  this  picture,  chief  of  them  being  that  I  did  not  wish 
him  to  see  it  until  it  was  in  some  sort  presentable ;  although,  had 
I  shown  it  to  him,  I  might  have  spared  myself  an  immense  deal 
of  toil  and  vexation.  I  was  working  without  tools,  to  begin  with. 
I  had  to  place  one  chair  on  the  top  of  another  to  form  an  easel ; 
then  the  canvas  was  tied  to  the  back  of  the  upper  chair  by  a  bit 
of  string,  while  I  sat  on  a  stool.  The  colors  I  had  bought  were 
of  the  cheapest  kind ;  but  I  had  acquired  under  Heatherleigh 
considerable  experience  in  heightening  and  tempering  dull  or 
crude  pigments.  Of  course,  I  had  no  models ;  but  the  recollec- 
tion of  form  was  always  easy  to  me.  And  yet  the  amount  of 
pain,  physical  and  mental,  that  the  incessant  struggle  with  my 
own  ignorance  and  inexperience  gave  me,  was  indescribable. 
Again  and  again  I  painted  portions  over — here  rubbing  out  the 
damp  work  of  the  previous  day,  there  coating  over  what  was  too 


70  KILMENY. 

dry  for  that  operation.  It  is  conceivable  that  the  canvas  g;ot  into 
a  deplorable  state  ;  and  at  last  I  drove  a  knife  straight  through 
it.  It  was  my  second  effort  at  the  same  picture  which  was  on 
the  stocks  when  Heatherleigh  spoke ;  and  of  it,  such  as  it  was, 
more  may  be  said  hereafter. 

In  the  mean  time  Heatherleigh  besought  me  to  moderate  the 
vehemence  of  my  labor.  He  professed  himself  unable  even  to 
supply  sketches  for  me  to  fill  up.  He  was  growing  too  rich,  he 
said — he  should  have  to  die  and  leave  his  wealth  to  the  hospitals. 
More  than  one  dealer  owed  him  money — an  unprecedented  thing 
— which  he  had  never  asked  for.  And  with  that  he  suddenly 
slapped  his  knee. 

"  Ted,"  he  said,  "  I  have  a  grand  idea.  Let's  both  put  on  a 
spurt  for  the  next  month  or  five  weeks.  The  Lewisons  are  going 
down  to  Brighton  in  June ;  and  you  and  I  will  go  too — for  a 
grand  long  holiday  of  magnificent  laziness.  We  can  make  up  by 
that  time  £200,  I  know  ;  and  we  will  go  fair  halves  in  it.  Now 
don't  blush  like  a  school-girl,  whether  you  are  vexed  or  pleased 
— you  do  three  fourths  of  the  work,  and  you  ought  at  least  to 
have  half  the  money.  Or  we  will  have  a  common  stock,  if  you 
like  it  better.  Is  it  a  bargain — five  weeks'  hard  work,  and  then 
a  month  at  the  sea  ?" 

The  sea !  I  heard  the  sound  of  waves  then,  as  clearly  as  I  can 
hear  them  now,  down  on  the  beach  there.  As  clearly  as  I  behold 
it  now,  from  this  window,  I  looked  through  tlic  mist  that  was  be- 
fore my  eyes,  and  I  saw  the  great,  breezy,  green  plain  in  the  sun- 
light, with  the  joyous  white  laugh  of  its  running  waves. 

Then  I  told  Heatherleigh  how  there  was  not  even  a  river  down 
in  the  Missenden  valley  in  which  I  had  been  brought  up ;  how 
the  farthest  views  you  could  get  from  the  chalk  hills  only  reveal- 
ed extensions  of  a  great  cultivated  plain  ;  how  the  sea  and  all  its 
strange  associations — so  difTcrent  from  those  of  the  land,  so  beau- 
tiful and  wild  and  terrible — [troduced  a  sort  of  delirium  in  me; 
and  how  even  the  remembrance  of  it  was  to  me  full  of  the  sad- 
ness which  is  somehow  interwoven  with  tlie  beauty  of  all  beauti- 
ful things. 

We  talked  of  Brighton  then,  and  of  the  sea,  and  of  what  was 
to  be  done  there.  Miss  Lesley  was  certain  to  be  with  the  Lewi- 
sons.     Perhaps  the  Burnhams  would  \>r  down. 

"I  know  several  other  people,"  said   lleatlurleigh ;  "they  are 


SOME    OLD    FRIENDS.  71 

all  nice  sort  of  people,  who  have  the  courage  to  leave  the  London 
season  at  its  height,  and  catch  the  flush  of  the  year  at  the  sea- 
side." 

The  very  next  day  I  had  to  go  down  Holborn ;  and  I  met  Big 
Dick  and  the  sleepy-headed  Kent,  who  were  on  their  way  to  their 
dinner.  I  went  up  and  spoke  to  them,  and  I  felt  like  an  impos- 
tor with  them.  Kent  was  very  respectful,  and  I  hated  him  for  it. 
Big  Dick  was  more  natural,  and  talked  pretty  much  in  his  usual 
fashion;  but  of  course  I  had  grown  a  good  deal  older  since  I  was 
his  apprentice,  and  there  was  a  difference  in  his  manner  too. 

"Let's  go  into  this  doorway,"  said  Kent,  glancing  at  my  fine 
suit  of  gray  clothes  and  my  hat.  (I  was  on  a  diplomatic  errand 
for  Ileatherleigh,  and  had  got  out  of  the  ordinary  slouching  stu- 
dio-costume.)    "  You  won't  care  to  be  seen  with  the  likes  of  us." 

"  Don't  be  a  fool,"  I  said,  rather  angrily,  and  kept  standing  in 
the  middle  of  the  pavement. 

I  was  debating  in  my  own  mind  how  I  could  offer  them  some- 
thing to  drink  without  appearing  to  be  ostentatious  (for  I  knew 
th(^  were  rather  sensitive  on  that  matter  of  treating,  which  is  a 
point  of  honor  among  working-men),  when  Big  Dick,  having 
more  moral  courage  than  I,  proposed  (and  I  was  heartily  glad) 
that  he  should  stand  something.  The  doorway  whicli  Kent 
wished  to  shelter  him  led  into  a  chop-house,  in  which  there  was 
also  a  bar;  so  as  we  were  going  in,  I  said — 

"  What  do  you  say  to  our  all  dining  here,  instead  of  your  go- 
ing home  ?" 

"  All  right,"  said  both  of  them  ;  and  so  we  went  in  and  sat 
down. 

They  asked  me  to  order  the  dinner,  and  I  did:  a  very  good 
dinner — mutton-chops,  vegetables,  gooseberry  pie,  and  bottled 
stout. 

"  Well,  I'm  d — d  glad  to  see  you,  Ted,"  said  Big  Dick,  shaking 
my  hand  again  with  his  great  horny  fist,  "only  I  suppose  we  must 
call  you  Mr.  Ives,  eh  ?" 

"  You  may  if  you  like,  Mr.  Richard  Primer,"  said  I — at  which 
profound  joke  Kent  laughed  consumedly. 

"  And  what  a  change  there  is  in  you  !"  said  Dick.  "  ^Vliy,  you 
were  a  poor  little  devil  when  I  knew  you — all  eyes,  you  know, 
and  looking  as  if  you  was  afraid  everybody  wanted  to  eat  you. 
And  now  you've  grown  tall  and  straight,  and  the  worst  of  you  1 


72  KILMEXY. 

can  say  is  as  you  look  too  like  a  b Frenchman  or  Italian. 

But  that  comes  through  your  way  of  life  now,  1  dare  say." 

Kent  had  been  looking  at  me  steadily  for  some  time  with  a 
sort  of  wonder  in  his  sleepy  eyes.  At  la.st  he  said,  cautiously  and 
with  nervous  politeness — 

"  I  hope  we're  not  detaining  of  you." 

"  I  wish  you  wouldn't  talk  like  that,  Kent,"  I  said,  nettled  be- 
yond endurance ;  and  this  woke  him  up  somewhat,  for  by  and  by 
he  said,  when  the  stout  had  warmed  him  a  little — 

"  You'll  be  marrying  presently,  and  then  there'll  be  Mrs.  Ives, 
as  well  as  Mr.  Ives,  and  lots  of  little  Iveses." 

With  that  Kent  stretched  his  gray  eyes  to  their  uttermost,  en- 
deavoring to  control  his  merriment ;  and  then  half  shut  them 
again,  and  abandoned  himself  to  a  roar  of  laughter  over  his 
wit. 

"  But  I've  good  news  for  you,  Ted,"  said  Dick,  laying  down  his 
tumbler.  "  There's  an  awful  revolution  round  there  at  Weasel's. 
Weasel  used  to  be  a  great  man  to  you — I  know  you  was  fright- 
ened of  him.  lla !  you  should  sec  Weasel  now.  He's  married 
— married  a  big,  strapping  woman  as  warms  him,  I  can  tell  ye, 
when  he  gets  into  a  bad  temper.  There's  no  cantankerousness  '11 
do  for  her.  She  can  give  him  a  hot  un  when  she  likes ;  and  the 
scoldin's  all  the  other  way  now.  Of  course  he's  the  same  to  us 
— mayhap  he  revenges  hisself  on  us  for  what  he  gets  from  her; 
but  doesn't  he  get  it !  She  comes  down  to  tlu^  shop  and  lays 
about  her  like  a  good  un  ;  and  Weasel,  with  his  whitey-brown 
face,  stands  and  bites  his  lips,  and  then  drives  the  things  about 
when  she's  gone.  Lord  bless  ye !  he  can't  call  his  soul  liis 
()\\  n." 

"  lie  never  could,"  I  said.  "  If  he  has  one,  he  must  have  bor- 
rowed or  stolen  it." 

Well,  I  don't  sec  anything  ])articularly  brilliant  in  that  remark; 
but  its  effect  upon  Kent  was  alarming.  He  had  been  drinking  a 
good  deal  of  bottled  stout;  and  what  I  said  about  Weasel's  soul 
sent  him  into  a  prodigious  fit  of  laughter,  with  which  doubtless 
the  beer  had  something  to  do.  He  laughed  till  tiic  tears  ran 
down  his  face;  and  then  something  stuck  in  his  throat,  and  he 
gasped  and  laughed  and  coiiglu'd  until  he  was  blood-retl.  See- 
ing that  he  was  in  the  same  good-humor  when  he  recovered,  I 
jtroposed  that  we  should  have  a  pint  bottle  of  old  port  with  our 


SOME    OLD    FRIENDS.  73 

cheese,  to  which  they  anreod ;  and  before  tlio  dinner  was  over  we 
had  entirely  established  our  ancient  relation.-. 

"  I'm  proud  of  ye,  Ted,"  said  Kent,  whose  lazy  gray  eyes  had 
never  been  so  excited  for  years,  "  and  I  say  as  you  are  a  credit  to 
the  shop  that  brought  you  up.    And  we'll  dance  at  your  wedding." 

Then  came  the  question  of  paying.  I  said,  carelessly,  that  I 
should  much  prefer  to  pay  for  the  whole ;  but  I  saw  by  Dick's 
face  tliat  he  was  a  little  hurt  by  the  proposal,  and  he  dissented 
from  it  in  rather  a  stiff  and  formal  way. 

"  Come,  then,"  I  said,  "  let's  toss  for  it." 

Now  there  is  a  favorite  trick  among  the  Missenden  boys  (and 
probably  among  boys  elsewhere)  by  which  you  can  toss  up  a  pen- 
ny, put  it  between  your  hands,  feel  with  your  thumb  whether  tail 
or  head  is  uppermost,  and  change  the  coin  according  to  what  your 
opponent  calls.  I  was  never  very  dexterous  at  this  piece  of  ju- 
venile legerdemain ;  but  I  succeeded  in  convincing  both  Big 
Dick  and  Kent  that  I  had  lost  both  times,  and  so  they  let  me  pay 
the  small  bill.  It  was  a  very  pleasant  dinner,  that  in  the  Hol- 
bom  chop-house ;  I  have  since  then  risen  from  many  a  grander 
banquet  having  enjoyed  myself  considerably  less.  When  we 
parted,  I  believe  Kent  was  in  such  good  spirits  that,  at  my  re- 
quest, he  would  have  gone  straight  into  the  shop  and  challenged 
Weasel  to  a  hand-to-hand  fight. 

However,  to  return  to  this  projected  trip  to  the  sea.  As  I  was 
going  home  that  evening  I  met  Polly  Whistler ;  she  turned  and 
walked  up  Hampstead  Road  with  me,  and  I  told  her  what  Ileath- 
erleigh  and  I  proposed  to  do.  Polly's  face  grew  a  trifle  thought- 
ful for  a  moment ;  and  then  she  said,  with  what  seemed  to  me  a 
rather  affected  carelessness — 

"  I  suppose  Mr.  Hcatherleigh  expects  to  meet  people  he  knows 
down  there — the  Lewisons,  perhaps  ?" 

"  Yes,  he  does." 

"  And  that  girl,  Miss  Lesley  ?" 

Polly  was  looking  hard  at  the  ground. 

"Yes,  I  think  she  will  be  there  also." 

"I  suppose  Mr.  Heatherleigh  means  to  marry  her?" 

"  Marry  her  !"  I  said,  in  astonishment,  and — shall  I  confess  it  ? 
—with  a  sharp  touch  of  pain. 

"  Why  not  ?"  she  said,  with  a  smile  that  was  peculiarly  unlike 
her  ordinary  frank  smile. 

D 


74  KILMENY. 

"  Don't  you  know  the  manner  in  which  he  always  talks  of 
her?"  I  asked — "quite  unfairly,  I  know;  but  still  he  does  it." 

"That  is  only  his  way,"  she  said.  "He  never  likes  you  to 
know  that  he  is  fond  of  anything  or  anybody,  and  makes  fun 
over  it  in  order  to  hide  himself.  If  he  were  dreadfully  in  love, 
and  going  to  be  married  to-morrow  morning,  he  would  spend  to- 
night in  satirizing  us  poor  women-folks  as  hard  as  he  could." 

"Then  he  is  not  dreadfully  in  love,  for  he  never  attempts  any- 
thing of  the  kind." 

"  But  you  say  he  talks  in  that  way  about  Miss  Lesley.  Now, 
what  sort  of  a  girl  is  she  ?" 

So,  as  we  went  on,  I  told  her  all  I  knew  of  Bonnie  Lesley,  and 
of  her  fine  and  handsome  appearance,  her  childlike  and  winning 
ways,  and  her  kindness  to  myself.  Polly  listened  very  attentive- 
ly, and  put  two  or  three  questions  the  drift  of  which  I  could  not 
quite  catch.     Then  she  grew  a  little  more  cheerful. 

"  You  are  likely  to  be  dreadfully  spoiled  by  women,  Ted,"  she 
remarked. 

"  Why  ?" 

"  I  don't  know.  There's  something  about  your  manner — some- 
thing desperately  direct  and  honest — that  provokes  one's  confidence. 
Don't  you  remember  I  talked  to  you  immediately  after  I  saw  you 
just  as  I  would  talk  to  you  now  ?  And  so  this  Miss  Lesley  has 
been  making  great  friends  with  you.  What  docs  she  say  about 
Mr.  Heatherleigh  ?" 

"Nothing.  I  think  tlierc  is  some  misunderstanding  between 
them.  He  is  coiistantly  gibing  at  her,  and  making  epigrams 
about  her;  and  she  is  very  cautious  in  mentioning  him  at  all." 

"I'm  glad  you  and  he  get  so  pleasant  a  snbject  to  talk  about 
all  day.  It  must  be  such  a  variety  from  the  constant  talking  shop 
that  you  men  are  so  fond  of.  We  women  never  get  a  chance  of 
talking  shop — unless  when  we  talk  about  babies." 

I 'oily  said  this  in  the  most  artless  manner,  but  in  a  second  she 
had  caught  herself  up,  crimsoned  deeply,  and  then  burst  out 
laughing.  To  hide  her  confusion,  she  stooped  and  picked  up  a 
pin  that  happened  to  be  lying  on  the  pavement. 

"There,"  she  said,  showing  me  the  pin  (though  there  was  still 
a  laugh  lurking  about  the  corners  of  her  mouth),  "how  many 
times  have  I  laid  the  foumhitiou  for  a  fortune?  ^'ou  know  tln^ 
stories  of  the  industrious  young  men  who  picked  up  a  pin,  and 


SOME    OLD    FRIENDS.  ^5 

then  heaps  of  money  came  to  them  through  it.  But  here  have  I 
been  picking  up  pins  for  years  in  the  expectation  of  getting  only 
a  small  competency,  and  it  never  comes.  What  are  you  laughing 
at?" 

"  At  your  ill-luck  in  never  getting  a  fortune,"  I  said,  boldly ; 
wherewith  she  laughed  too. 

Having  once  got  into  these  good  spirits,  she  rattled  on  like  a 
mad  thing.  vShe  took  my  arm,  and  we  strolled  along  carelessly 
towards  Hampstead,  she  all  the  while  telling  stories,  and  making 
the  oddest  remarks  about  the  people  passing,  and  laughing  in  her 
quiet  and  discreet  fashion.  First  she  began  about  a  lady  in  her 
neighborhood,  a  widow,  who  was  famous  for  the  number  of  her 
suitors,  and  the  rapidity  with  which  they  were  changed.  She  de- 
scribed the  various  lovers,  and  their  mode  of  making  love ;  al- 
though I  am  positive  she  never  was  inside  the  house,  nor  heard 
one  of  them  speak. 

"  The  one  she  has  got  just  now,"  continued  Polly,  "  is  the 
smallest  man,  I  believe,  in  the  world — so  small  and  thin  and  pale. 
I  used  to  call  him  the  widow's  mite ;  and  she  heard  of  it,  and  said 
she  would  teach  me  better  manners  if  she  laid  her  hands  on  me." 

This  led  up  to  another  experience  of  Polly's.  She  had  been 
going  on  a  bitterly  cold  winter  night  to  visit  some  one  at  Stam- 
ford Hill ;  and  after  the  omnibus  was  packed,  a  rather  good-look- 
ing young  girl  appeared  at  the  door  and  looked  in. 

"  Come  in,"  said  an  elderly  gentleman, — "come  in,  my  girl,  and 
you  can  sit  on  my  knee  till  you  get  out." 

Rather  than  wait  half  an  hour  in  the  cold,  the  girl,  blushing  a 
little,  did  as  she  was  bid,  and  was  subjected  to  a  good  deal  of 
quiet  and  harmless  joking  by  the  passengers,  who  were  going 
home  to  their  suburban  houses,  and  all  of  whom  knew  the  old 
gentleman  who  was  so  complaisant  to  the  new-comer.  He  him- 
self was  very  good-natured  and  jocular,  and  made  some  remote 
hints  about  his  wishing  that  he  was  not  married. 

"  Then,"  said  Polly,  "  the  old  gentleman  asked  her  where  she 
meant  to  get  out.  '  Clarence  Lodge,'  she  says.  '  Why,'  he 
says,  'that's  my  house!'  'Are  you  Mr.  Sandemann  ?'  she  asks. 
'  Yes,'  he  says,  beginning  to  look  uncomfortable.  '  Then  Fm 
your  new  servant,  sir,'  she  says,  and  you  may  imagine  how  all 
the  gentlemen  roared.  But  did  you  ever  notice,  Ted,  that  in  get- 
ting into  a  'bus,  or  anywhere,  women  are  far  less  courteous  to 


76  KILMENY. 

each  other  than  men  are  to  each  other  ?  Men  seem  to  have  some 
idea  of  fairness,  and  let  the  first-comers  go  in ;  but  women  will 
squeeze  and  elbow  and  push  themselves  foremost  in  defiance  of 
justice.  Of  course  one  of  the  fine  ladies  you  visit  wouldn't  do 
that.  She  would  let  anybody  who  had  the  vulgarity  to  take  pre- 
cedence take  it,  and  would  only  show  her  contempt  with  the  tip 
of  her  nose.  I  am  beginning  to  think  that  all  fine  ladies  are  my 
natural  enemies." 

With  this  sort  of  nonsense  (which  gained  not  a  little  from 
Polly's  bright  eyes  and  her  low,  delightful  laugh)  an  hour  or  two 
passed  very  pleasantly,  and  it  was  getting  towards  dusk  when  we 
came  down  Hampstead  Road  again.  I  thought  there  was  some- 
thing more  in  that  vague  dislike  to  fine  ladies  than  lay  on  the  sur- 
face of  her  foolish  talk,  and  I  noticed  that  Polly  more  than  once 
turned  the  conversation  towards  Bonnie  Lesley.  She  was  careful 
about  what  she  said,  but  indirectly  she  uttered  some  rather  cut- 
ting speeches  about  this  poor  girl,  wlio  seemed  to  be  more  sus- 
pected the  less  she  was  known.  I'olly  had  not  even  seen  her. 
And,  having  cogitated  over  the  matter,  I,  in  my  wisdom,  evolved 
these  propositions,  to  account  for  the  mystery. 

1.  Heatherleigh  has  been,  and  perhaps  is,  in  love  with  Miss 
Lesley. 

2.  She  has  refused  him,  and  promised  to  keej)  the  secret. 

3.  He  is  vexed,  and  makes  epigrams  about  her  fickleness,  sim- 
ply because  he  happened  to  be  in  love,  and  she  wasn't. 

4.  Polly  is  in  love  with  Heatherleigh,  and,  without  having  seen 
her,  is  jealous  of  Bonnie  Lesley,  and  consofjuently  spiteful. 

There  were  some  few  points  whicli  did  not  seem  to  me  to  square 
with  this  theory,  but  it  was  the  best  guess  I  could  make  at  the 
position. 


Polly's  mutheu.  Y? 


CHAPTER   VIII. 

folly's  mother. 

I  THREW  myself  into  tliat  five  weeks'  work  with  all  the  energy 
of  which  I  was  capable.  Look  at  the  splendid  prize  that  was  to 
recompense  our  labor.  To  Heatherleigh  a  month  at  the  sea-side 
was  nothing ;  to  me  it  was  a  treasure  perpetual,  inexhaustible. 
While  I  worked  I  dreamed  of  it.  That  gaunt  and  dusty  chamber 
in  Granby  Street  seemed  to  smell  of  sea-weed,  and  the  stillness  of 
it  was  like  the  murmur  of  a  shell.  People  who  have  repeatedly 
spent  a  month  at  the  sea-side  know  how  short  a  period  it  is,  but  I 
looked  forward  with  a  kind  of  wonder  to  the  idea  of  rising  morning 
after  morning,  and  still  finding  one's  self  confronted  by  the  great 
width  of  water.  I  liked  the  labor,  and  I  liked  what  was  coming 
after  it.  At  present,  the  excitement  and  the  interest  of  hard 
work ;  in  the  future  a  blaze  of  sunlight,  and  tingling  breezes,  and 
the  glories  of  the  sea. 

And  it  was  during  this  period,  too,  that  I  first  definitely  saw 
that  my  work  was  of  some  value  to  my  benefactor  and  friend. 
Not  only  did  I  do  the  greater  portion  of  most  of  the  pictures,  but 
I  goaded  him  into  what  work  he  did  undertake.  But  for  me,  I 
think  the  scheme  would  have  been  abandoned.  Many  a  time  I 
went  up  in  the  morning,  and  found  him  lounging  in  his  easy-chair, 
absorbed  in  one  of  his  favorite  treatises. 

"  I  don't  think  I  shall  go  on  with  that  picture  to-day,"  he  would 
say;  "what  is  the  use  of  bothering?  Let  us  go  down  to  Rotten 
Row,  and  stare  at  the  people." 

Then  I  would  remonstrate,  and  remind  him  of  our  compact. 

"  You  are  the  most  uncompromising,  persistent,  stiff-necked 
brute  I  ever  met.  What  is  the  use  of  life,  if  you  must  subject 
yourself  to  all  sorts  of  needless  martyrdoms  ?  You  will  worry  your- 
self now,  and,  when  you  find  yourself  at  Brighton  with  nothing 
to  do,  idleness  will  drive  you  mad." 

"  Idleness  hasn't  driven  somebody  else  mad  whom  I  know,"  1 
said. 


V8  KILMENY. 

"  You  haven't  enough  of  reflection  in  yon  to  know  that  tlie  in- 
tentional idleness  you  propose  to  have  at  Brighton  would  be  a 
nuisance,  while  the  chance  idleness  you  take  at  the  suggestion  of 
a  whim  is  always  charming.  So  soon  as  a  man  is  over-conscious 
that  he  is  doing  something,  the  enjoyment  of  it  flies,  I  have  a 
notion  that  you  could  make  one  of  those  mad  harlequin-dancers 
miserable  by  getting  him  to  read  a  treatise  on  anatomy.  Indeed 
you  would  destroy  his  chances  of  living.  Show  him  all  the  del- 
icate mechanism  of  the  bones  and  sinews,  and  he  could  never 
afterwards  fling  his  limbs  into  contorted  forms  without  a  vague 
fear,  which  would  render  the  performance  a  failure." 

Now,  if  I  had  let  him  go  on,  there  would  have  been  no  more 
work  that  day.  lie  would  start  some  such  subject,  and  pursue  it 
through  all  its  phases,  comic  and  serious  and  practical,  with  his 
hands  crossed  on  the  crown  of  his  head,  and  his  legs  stretched  out 
and  crossed  in  front  of  him.  As  I  have  said,  he  had  no  sort  of 
interest  in  painting  as  painting.  To  him  it  was  merely  a  profes- 
sion which  yielded  him  an  easy  life,  plenty  of  leisure  in  which  to 
indulge  his  habit  of  indolent  day-dreaming  and  listless  speculation, 
and  as  much  money  as  kept  him  comfortably,  or  allowed  him  to 
be  generous  when  he  wished. 

Something  else  in  his  book  had  struck  him;  and  he  was  anx- 
ious to  explain  to  me  how  the  writer  was  wrong  in  assuming  that 
civilization  would  in  time  work  frightful  mischief  by  developing 
the  cerebrum  at  the  expense  of  the  cerebellum. 

"  That's  all  very  well,"  I  said,  "  but—" 

"  It  is  absurd,"  he  persisted.  "  The  j)hysical  conditions  of  life 
will  prevent  it.  So  long  as  men  have  got  to  contend  with  cold 
and  rain,  and  the  toil  and  exposure  of  agricultural  work,  the  race 
will  never  so  exclusively  cultivate  its  intellectual  powers  as  to  im- 
prove itself  off  the  earth.     It  seems  to  me — " 

With  that  I  sat  down  at  liis  easel  (not  mine)  and  began  working 
at  tlu!  ])icture.  But  I  had  been  merely  a  dummy  listener;  he  con- 
tinued his  meditations  all  the  same,  and  it  was  only  when  I  began 
to  meddle  with  the  face  of  his  heroine  (a  very  good  likeness  of 
Polly)  that  he  started  up,  and  took  his  palette  and  brushes  in  hand. 

"After  we  get  down  to  the  sea-side,"  I  said,  "  I  will  lie  on  the 
beach  if  you  like  for  hours,  and  listen  to  everything  you  have  to 
soy  about  harlequins  or  priests  or  philosophers." 

"  You  have  the  detenniiiation  of ,"  he  said,  nainin!^  an  liis- 


POLLV'S    MOTHER.  79 

toiical  personage  wlio  may  have  been  determined,  but  who  was 
notoriously  unsuccessful. 

At  length  the  time  drew  near ;  and,  altliough  we  had  not  got 
in  all  the  money,  it  was  worked  for  and  available.  Heatherleigh, 
having  taken  down  some  checks  to  be  cashed,  came  back  with  a 
pocketful  of  bank-notes.  He  counted  them  out  —  one  hundred 
and  sixty  pounds  odd  —  and  then  he  quietly  told  off  eighty  of 
tliese  and  placed  the  money  before  me  on  the  table. 

I  was  tlie  possessor  of  eighty  pounds  in  hard  cash — it  was  my 
own,  my  very  own. 

"  Heatherleigh,"  I  said,  "  let  us  have  a  walk  through  Kensing- 
ton Gardens  and  around  the  Serpentine." 

"  Why,  you  positively  love  the  Serpentine,  I  believe,  you  abom- 
inable Cockney.     And  you  going  to  the  sea  to-morrow !" 

Nevertheless  we  went ;  and  as  we  drew  near  the  small  lake,  the 
sun  had  set  in  the  northwest,  and  after  the  red  light  had  quite 
faded  down,  there  was  a  strange  pale  "  after-glow  "  in  the  sky, 
while  a  gathering  mist  fell  over  the  water,  causing  the  opposite 
shore  and  its  trees  to  recede  into  a  vague,  ethereal  distance.  I  had 
grown  to  love  the  Serpentine  in  the  old  days  of  my  bondage,  when 
I  used  to  steal  out  alone  in  the  evening,  and  sit  on  the  cold  wooden 
seats,  as  the  stillness  of  the  night  fell.  And  now,  as  we  walked 
across  the  damp  grass,  the  various  soundfs  of  the  day  ceased,  and 
the  place  was  solitary  and  quiet ;  while  the  wandering  white  of 
the  fog  settled  thicker  over  the  farther  side  of  the  lake,  and 
through  it  we  saw  the  far  gas-lamps  burning  sharp  and  red.  Then, 
as  we  lingered  a  while,  a  strange  golden  moonlight  crept  up  the 
skies  and  made  the  faint  streaks  of  the  clouds  visible ;  while  it 
touched  the  trees  also,  and  glimmered,  a  trembling  line  of  yellow 
light,  along  the  shore.  You  forgot  that  you  were  near  a  great 
city,  and  the  poor  Serpentine  became  lonely,  mystic,  magical. 

Did  Heatherleigh  guess  why  I  wished  to  come  hither?  Many 
a  time,  in  the  old  days,  I  had  wandered  around  the  small  lake, 
empty-hearted  and  empty-pocketed.  In  all  my  dreams,  did  I  ever 
anticipate  that  within  a  year  or  two  I  should  walk  over  that  damp 
grass,  and  around  that  mystical  shore,  my  own  master,  with  the  art 
that  I  had  loved  as  an  amusement  now  become  the  sole  occupa- 
tion of  my  life,  with  a  future  full  of  freedom  and  beautiful  possi- 
bilities before  me,  with  eighty  pounds  of  savings  clasped  tightly 
vn  my  pocket? 


80  KILMENY. 

"  \\Tiat  are  you  thinking  of  ?"  said  Heatherleigh. 

"  Of  the  power  that  this  money  gives  me.  Couldn't  I  live  foi 
a  whole  year,  doing  anything  or  nothing,  just  as  I  liked,  upon  it  ? 
I  could  set  eighty  wretched  creatures  wild  with  delight  by  giving 
them  a  sovereign  apiece.  I  could  take  fifty  pounds  of  it,  and 
buy  a  small,  little  brooch,  with  curious  stones  in  it,  and  I  could 
send  it,  without  being  known — " 

"  To  whom  ?"  said  Heatherleigh. 

Then  I  burst  out  laughing ;  for  I  knew  it  was  time  the  farce 
should  end. 

"  Here,"  I  said,  "  take  the  money.  I  have  no  right  to  it.  I 
wanted  to  have  the  sensation  of  having  it,  and  of  coming  down 
here  to  crow  over  the  notions  that  Weavle  used  to  give  me." 

He  refused  to  take  it. 

"  I  won't  liave  it,"  I  said,  simply  enough,  "  because  you  know 
as  well  as  I  do  that  I  have  no  right  whatever  to  it." 

"  Well,"  he  said,  "  you  are  still  to  me  that  perpetual  conundrum 
that  I  can't  make  out.  Where  were  you  born,  Ted  ?  Had  you  a 
father  and  mother?  I  believe  you  are  a  sort  of  will-o'-the-wisp — 
there's  no  catching  you.  You  have  the  courage  and  determina- 
tion and  self-reliance  of  half-a-dozen  men,  and  you  have  the  sensi- 
tiveness, and  finical,  particular,  humbugging  nonsense  of  a  thou- 
sand girls ;  and  all  this  confusion  of  character  you  exhibit  with  a 
simplicity  which  astounds  me.  Brought  up  as  you  have  been, 
you  should  be  as  hard  as  steel,  cautious,  keen,  avaricious — " 

But  I  need  not  follow  liim  into  his  theory  about  the  manner  in 
which  I  had  come  to  develop  those  wonderful  qualities  he  had 
discovered.  When  he  finished,  wo  were  still  walking  around  the 
Serpentine;  and  the  moonlight  was  now  full  and  clear  in  the 
skies. 

"  That  bodes  well  for  to-morrow,"  said  he. 

"But,"  said  I,  "you  haven't  taken  the  money.  If  you  like,  I 
will  accept  ten  pounds  of  it;  and  let  the  rest  go  into  our  general 
fund  for  lioiisekeepiiig  at  Brighton." 

■^I'o  this  he  agreed  ;  and  next  day  we  proceeded  to  get  our  things 
in  readiness  for  starting.  Folly  Whistler  called  around  in  the  fore- 
noon ;  and  then  I  persuaded  her  to  go  out  witli  me,  and  help  me 
to  purchase  with  the  ten  pounds  a  dress  for  my  mother.  We 
went  to  a  big  place  in  Tottenham  (-ourt  Road,  a)id  I'olly  was  quite 
grand  in  her  manner  as  siie  insisted  upon  seeing  pretty  nearly 


Polly's  mother.  81 

everything  in  the  shop.  At  hist  she  confessed  herself  pleased ; 
and  the  parcel  was  ordered  to  be  sent  on  by  the  Burnham  coach 
to  its  destination. 

Further,  I  persuaded  Polly  to  dine  with  us,  and,  finally,  to  come 
and  see  us  off. 

"  It  is  a  heart-breaking  thing  to  part  with  you,  Ted,"  she  re- 
marked ;  "  but  we  must  teach  ourselves  to  suffer.  Besides,  my 
old  woman  is  a  little  wild  to-day ;  and  then  I  like  to  give  her  the 
house  to  herself." 

"  She  has  been  trying  to  keep  you  in  order,  Polly,"  said  Heath- 
erleigh,  strapping  down  his  portmanteau. 

"And  she  can  keep  people  in  order,"  said  Polly.  "  If  she  had 
been  Nebuchadnezzar's  wife,  she'd  have  made  him  pare  his  nails 
precious  smart !" 

I  could  not  help  admiring  the  good-natured  way  in  which  the 
girl  joked  about  this  affair,  which  was  certainly  no  laughing  mat- 
ter to  her.  To  listen  to  her,  you  would  have  imagined  that  her 
mother's  only  fault  was  a  certain  impatience  of  people  who  did 
wrong,  and  a  desire  to  have  her  own  way  in  ordering  her  house. 
Polly  said  nothing  of  the  persecution  and  insults,  and  often  bodily 
pain,  she  suflfered  at  the  hands  of  that  bad  old  woman,  whose 
drunken  madness  had  long  ago  made  her  forget  that  she  was  a 
mother. 

There  was  some  commission  which  Heatherleigh  had  undertaken 
that  prevented  our  catcliing  the  afternoon  express.  There  was 
nothing  for  it  but  to  sit  in  patience,  with  our  portmanteaus  at  our 
feet,  waiting  for  the  recusant  messenger,  the  while  Polly  chatted 
and  laughed,  and  pretended  to  make  love  to  me. 

Our  fooling  was  suddenly  interrupted  by  the  sound  of  a  loud 
voice  on  the  stairs — a  woman's  voice,  shrill,  angry,  intoxicated. 
How  it  flashed  across  me  that  this  must  be  Polly's  mother  I  don't 
know ;  but  I  shall  never  forget  the  quick  gesture  and  look  of  the 
girl  when  she  heard  the  noise.  She  instinctively  caught  my  arm, 
as  if  for  protection,  while  she  darted  a  terrified,  anxious  glance 
towards  Heatherleigh.  It  was  as  though  she  had  cried  to  me,  "  Ted, 
save  me,  and  don't  let  him  know  !"  In  that  brief  second  the 
whole  nature  of  the  girl  was  revealed;  and  I  said  to  myself,  "She 
loves  him  with  her  whole  heart." 

Instantaneous  as  was  the  warning  given,  and  dumb  as  were  her 
directions,  I  had  sufficient  presence  of  mind  to  go  quickly  to  the 

I)  2 


82  KILMENY. 

door.  I  went  outside,  and  sliut  the  door  behind  us.  The  woman 
was  on  the  stairs,  directing  the  fury  of  her  speech,  along  with 
much  gesticulation,  upon  a  maid-servant,  who,  from  underneath, 
was  protesting  against  the  strange  visitor  going  up-stairs  unan- 
nounced. My  appearance  on  the  scene  turned  the  flood  of  her 
wrath  upon  me. 

"  I've  got  you,  have  I  ?  I  thought  it  was  here  youM  be  found ; 
and  it's  time  1  had  a  chance  of  speakin'  hout.  You're  Mr.  Heath- 
erleigh's  friend,  are  you  ;  and  what  have  you  done  with  my  daugh- 
ter ?  I  say,  what  have  you  done  with  my  poor  girl,  that's  bein' 
made  a  byword  of  among  a  pack  of  wolves  ?  Oh,  don't  pretend 
to  pacify  me — I  heard  o'  your  goin's  on  this  morning,  and  buyln' 
a  dress  for  a  respectable  girl  as  belongs  to  a  family  as  'zpectable 
as  yours.  And  are  you  not  ashamed  of  yourself,  sir — my  poor 
lamb  among  them  wolves?  But  I'll  have  the  law  on  you,  I  will, 
I  will,  I  will !" 

"  Don't  be  a  fool,"  I  said  ;  "  hold  your  tongue,  and  come  down- 
stairs and  tell  me  what  you  want." 

"  Is  my  daughter  in  that  room  ?"  she  screamed,  at  the  pitch  of 
her  shrilly  voice. 

"  If  you  don't  be  quiet,  I'll  have  you  turned  out  of  the  house," 
I  said,  and  then  added — determined  to  avert  the  shame  of  an  ex- 
posure from  poor  Polly — "  Is  it  money  you  want?  I  will  give  it 
to  you,  only  don't  make  such  a  hideous  noise." 

"  Merciful  'eavens !"  she  yelled  ;  "  he  wants  to  buy  me  as  he 
has  bought  my  daughter.  Oh,  the  wretch  !  Oh,  the  vile,  wicked, 
traitorous — " 

I  caught  her  by  the  arm,  as  I  thought  she  was  going  to  tumble 
down  the  stairs. 

"Would  you  lay  hands  on  me?     You  think  you'll  buy  me — " 

"  Wliy,  you  old  humbug,  I  wouldn't  give  twopence  for  a  dozen 
of  you,"  I  said,  when  I  saw  it  was  impossible  to  restrain  her  vio- 
lence by  persuasion. 

With  that  she  caught  me  by  the  coat,  dashed  past  me  like  a 
wild-cat,  and  entered  the  room.  I  followed  ;  and  whatever  there 
may  have  been  of  absurdity  or  comicality  in  the  old  woman's  rav- 
ings on  the  stair,  was  forgotten  now  in  what  I  saw  before  me. 
Polly  stood  motionless,  her  face  bent  down  and  quite  j)ale.  Her 
lij)s  were  tn'iiibling ;  but  that  ex|)ressed  only  a  tithe  of  the  hiiniil- 
iation  and  shame  that  scfm<'(l  to  cover  her  whole  figure.     She  had 


POLLY  S    MOTHER.  83 

heard  what  had  been  going  on  outside,  and  she  stood  there  abso- 
lutely stupefied  and  speechless  by  the  cruel  shame  and  mortifica- 
tion that  she  must  have  long  dreaded.  Heatherleigh  stood  at  the 
other  end  of  the  room,  with  a  look  of  wonder  on  his  face  that 
soon  gave  way  to  indignation  and  anger.  For  the  old  woman  at 
first  confronted  her  daughter,  and  made  such  speeches  as  I  need 
not  write  down  here.  It  is  not  a  pleasant  thing  to  hear  a  mother 
mouthing  out  lies  against  the  character  of  her  daughter,  wounding 
her  at  her  most  sensitive  points,  and  outraging  even  the  bystand- 
ers' sense  of  decency.  She  spoke  so  rapidly,  too,  that  the  mis- 
chief was  done  before  either  of  us  could  interfere ;  but  Heather- 
leigh, with  a  quick  flush  on  his  face,  went  forward  and  caught  her 
by  the  shoulder. 

"  You  shameless  creature,''  lie  said,  "  do  you  know  what  you 
are  doing?" 

Here  Polly,  still  looking  down,  came  forward  and  interposed 
between  them. 

"  Mr.  Heatherleigh,  she  is  my  mother,"  said  the  girl,  now  cry- 
ing very  bitterly.     "  Mother,  come  away." 

But  the  infuriated  woman  drove  her  aside,  and  held  her  ground, 
while  she  confronted  us  with  an  intoxicated  stare. 

"  Good-bye,  Ted,"  said  Polly  to  me,  holding  out  her  hand. 
Then,  I  think,  she  directed  one  furtive  glance  towards  Heather- 
leigh, and  went  away.     The  mother  remained  behind. 

"  Good-bye,"  I  had  said  to  her,  knowing  that  it  was  the  last  time 
she  would  ever  enter  that  room,  in  which  we  had  spent  so  many 
innocent  and  happy  evenings. 

"Do  you  know  what  you  have  done,  you  foolish  old  idiot? 
Do  you  know  what  you  have  done?"  said  Heatherleigh,  with  his 
face  full  of  mortification  and  anger.  "  Do  you  know  that  you 
have  tried  to  destroy  the  character  of  an  honest  and  industrious 
girl,  who  has  hitherto  kept  you  and  indulged  your  beastly  habits  ? 
Do  you  know  that  you  may  have  sickened  her  of  her  honest  life  ? 
Do  you  know  what  has  happened  within  the  last  few  minutes — 
that  you  have  outraged  the  feelings  of  a  sensitive  girl,  whom  you 
ought  to  have  protected,  and  may  God  forgive  you  if  anything 
comes  of  your  drunken  insanity  !" 

He  snatched  his  hat,  and  hastily  went  out.  It  was  half  an  hour 
afterwards  when  he  returned.  By  that  time  the  old  woman  had 
gone.     Heatherleigh's   words   had  partly   sobered  her ;   she  had 


84  KILMENY. 

be^2:ed  my  forgiveness,  and  burst  into  a  flood  of  alcoholic  tears. 
When  Heathcrleigh  came  back,  I  noticed  that  he  was  rather  pale, 
and  there  was  a  thoughtful,  fixed  look  in  his  face. 

All  the  way  down  in  the  train  he  scarcely  spoke.  Neither  of 
us  cared  to  read  by  the  light  of  the  dingy  carriage-lamp,  and  so 
we  lay  and  stared  out  into  the  dusk.  There  was  a  faint  light  ou'  • 
side,  owing  to  the  moon,  but  the  moon  herself  remained  hidden. 

Presently  he  said  to  me,  looking  up  from  his  reverie — 

"Did  you  ever  hear  or  see  anything  like  that?" 

I  knew  what  he  meant,  and  I  said — 

"  It  is  the  last  time  Polly  will  ever  be  in  that  room." 

"  I  followed  her,"  he  said.  "  I  overtook  her,  and,  do  you 
know,  she  would  scarcely  speak  to  me.  The  poor  girl  seemed 
quite  dazed  and  bewildered — no  wonder.  I  could  have  strangled 
tiiat  incoherent  old  idiot  who  went  raving  on  and  seeing  nothing 
of  what  she  was  doing.  And  yet  Polly  should  not  have  been 
so  much  put  out.  When  I  told  her  we  all  understood  that  her 
mother  was  talking  nonsense,  she  said  nothing  but  that  I  was  to 
go  back  again,  and  leave  her  to  go  home  alone.  I  don't  under- 
stand it." 

"  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  Polly  never  spoke  to  you  any  more," 
I  said. 

"  Why  ?"  he  asked,  with  a  quick  glance  of  surprise. 

"  I  don't  know.     I  don't  think  she  ever  will." 

The  apartments  which  Ileatherlcigh'had  secured  for  us  were  in 
King's  Koad,  and  therefore  fronting  the  sea.  But  as  we  drove 
down  from  the  station  and  around  to  the  house,  I  could  see  noth- 
ing but  a  dusky  gray  where  the  sea  ought  to  have  been.  I  heard 
the  murmur  of  it,  however,  far  away,  like  iiiuumcrablt"  strange 
voices. 

Supper  was  prepared  for  us.  Afterwards  lleatherleigh  smoked 
a  solitary  pipe  in  silence;  and  then  we  retired  to  our  respective 
rooms.  Mine  was  a  small  clnunber,  near  the  top  of  the  house, 
fronting  the  sea.  I  could  not  slei'p  ft)r  that  strange  noise,  that 
seemed  so  wild  and  distant  and  yet  so  sadly  familiar.  1  must 
have  lain  and  tossed  about  for  a  couple  of  hours  or  so,  I  think,  and 
then  I  began  to  perceive  that  the  room  was  full  of  light,  and  on 
the  wall,  near  the  window,  the  moon  was  gleaming  in  slanting 
sfjuart's 

I  got  up  and  went  to  the  wimlow,  and  involuntarily  I  uttered 


POLLY  S    MOTHER.  85 

a  cry  of  astonishment  and  joy.  The  world  outside  was  all  aglow 
with  moonlight  of  a  soft  and  greenish-yellowish  hue,  the  large, 
full  moon  hei'self  hanging  up  there  over  the  sea  and  throwing  a 
great,  broad  lane  of  glittering  light  on  the  water.  Every  object 
was  sharply  and  clearly  defined  ;  from  the  })alings  along  the  Pa- 
rade and  the  boats  on  the  gray  beach  to  the  fleet  of  fishing-smacks 
whose  black  hulls  lay  and  rolled  in  the  flood  of  moonlight.  And 
I  could  see  the  waves  now — tiny  waves  that  came  gently  in,  and 
broke  over  with  a  murmur  which  was  repeated  and  echoed  in  the 
stillness  of  the  night.  The  picture  was  magical,  wonderful.  I 
listened  to  the  sound  of  the  waves,  and  gazed  upon  the  splendid 
pathway  of  silver  that  lay  and  quivered  on  the  great  gray  plain 
of  the  sea,  until  I  was  numbed  with  cold.  Then  I  hastily  dressed 
myself,  sneaked  down-.stairs,  opened  the  door  of  the  house  stealth- 
ily, and  was  outside. 

There  was  not  a  human  being  abroad  at  that  hour ;  this  whole, 
beautiful  world  was  mine.  I  walked  away  from  the  houses — east- 
ward, past  the  chain-pier,  the  dark  masses  of  which  were  touched 
with  the  moonlight,  and  past  those  long  terraces  of  tall  buildings 
that  gleamed  gray  and  ghost-like  in  the  silence  of  the  night.  I 
wandered  on,  along  the  smooth  turf  of  the  cliffs,  meeting  no  one 
but  some  solitary  coast-guardsman — a  black  figure  seen  vaguely 
against  the  gray-green  of  the  sea.  The  moon  was  at  my  back 
now,  but  all  around  was  the  wonderful,  calm,  clear  light;  and  so 
I  walked  on  until  I  stood  over  Rottingdean,  the  small  hamlet  that 
lay  dark  and  silent  under  the  throbbing  eastern  stars. 

Here  I  went  down  on  the  beach.  The  tide  was  some  distance 
out ;  and  there  came  a  breezy  odor  of  sea-weed  from  those  patches 
of  rock  out  there,  among  which  the  pools  of  water  glimmered 
white.  I  lay  down  on  the  shingle,  under  the  great  cliffs,  that 
echoed  back  the  long  rush  of  the  waves  on  the  shore.  I  could 
now  see  the  distant  lamps  of  Brighton,  the  black  line  of  the  pier, 
the  specks  of  fishing-boats,  and  the  moon  that  seemed  to  belong 
to  that  side  of  the  picture ;  while  before  me  stretched  the  vague 
and  mystical  sea,  and  overhead  dw  elt  the  silence  of  those  splendid 
constellations  that  were  now  growing  faint  and  wan.  Was  that 
the  famous  jewel  of  the  Harp  that  gleamed  so  palely  there  ?  The 
twisted  snakes  of  Cerberus  were  cold  and  dead,  and  the  flaming 
points  that  used  to  stud  the  aerial  harness  of  Pegasus  were  scarce- 
V  visible.     Hercules  himself  seemed  sick  and  pale  in  the  moon- 


86  KILMENT. 

light ;  or  was  it  another  strange  light  that  now  began  to  show  in 
the  east,  bringing  with  it  a  stirring  of  cold  wind  ?  I  know  that 
when  I  returned  to  Brighton,  and  got  into  the  house  again  and 
tumbled  into  bed,  a  glow  of  pale  saffron  was  shining  along  the 
level  coast  by  Shoreham  and  Worthing ;  while  high  up  in  the  east 
there  were  flakes  of  rod  in  the  sky,  and  all  the  new  motion  of 
the  dawn. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

LEWES      CASTLE. 


I  AWOKE  in  a  torrent  of  adjectives.  Ileatherleigh  was  stand- 
ing by  my  bedside,  heaping  reproaches  on  me  for  lying  so  long 
on  such  a  morning,  when,  as  was  evident  from  the  great  splatches 
of  sunlight  on  the  wall  of  the  room,  the  weather  was  lovely.  He 
was  dressed  remarkably  well — in  a  fashion  which  set  off  his  hand- 
some figure ;  and  you  would  have  failed  entirely  to  recognize  in 
this  tall  and  gentlemanly  looking  man,  with  his  accurate  gloves, 
the  easily  negligent  tie,  and  the  large  brown  beard  which  was  ex- 
actly that  of  the  "  swell"  of  tliat  time,  the  indolent  student-painter 
who  a  few  days  before  was  lounging  about  a  dirty  room  in  Granby 
Street  in  shabl)y  clothes,  with  unkempt  hair,  no  collar,  and  an  old 
wooden  pipe.  The  odd  thing  was  that  in  either  case  there  was 
not  the  least  self-conscious  assumption.  lie  was  as  natural  in  the 
one  condition  as  the  other;  although  I  think  he  greatly  enjoyed 
the  sudden  contrast  of  these  twin  modes  of  living,  and  went  to 
extremes  in  both  to  increase  his  pleasure. 

"  Wliy,  it  is  past  twelve,"  he  said;  "T  have  been  riding  with 
Bonnie  Lesley  since  half-past  ten.  Ah !  I  thought  I'd  wake  you 
up  with  that  bit  of  news.  Fancy  our  having  been  at  Ilottingdean 
while  you  were  lying  asleep,  like  a  pig,  in  broad  daylight." 

"I  was  at  Rottiiigdean  this  morning  before  either  of  yon,"  1 
said;  and  then  I  told  him  how  I  had  wandered  about  all  night. 

"Madness!  my  boy,  madness!"  he  said.  "But  come,  dress 
yourself  smartly  ;  you  are  due  at  the  Lewisons'  at  one,  for  lunch ; 
and  Miss  Lesley  sen<ls  you  her  kind  regards,  and  hopes  you  will 
spend  the  afternoon  with  her.  This  is  a  coMiplinicnt,  mind  you; 
for  she  is  holding  (juite  a  court  down  liere." 


LEWES    CASTLE.  87 

"  I  hope  you  have  made  friends  with  her  again,"  I  said. 

"Oh,  Bonnie  Lesley  and  I  have  always  been  friends  —  of  a 
kind,"  he  said. 

When  I  went  down-stairs,  and  went  to  the  front  window,  the 
woild  of  Brighton  was  out  driving  and  riding  and  walking  in  the 
glowing  sunlight,  while  a  gentle  sea-breeze  came  over  the  far  blue 
plain,  and  brought  with  it  coolness,  and  the  odor  of  sea-weed,  and 
the  plash  of  the  waves  on  the  beach.  What  a  gay  and  brilliant 
company  it  was,  to  be  sure — the  twos  and  threes  of  ladies  who 
lay  lazily  and  proudly  in  their  phaetons  and  landaus;  the  packs 
of  rosy-cheeked  girls  who  cantered  past  on  horseback,  accompa- 
nied by  a  riding-master  or  their  papa;  the  incessant  strolling 
backwards  and  forwards  of  men  and  women  dressed  in  the  ex- 
treme of  fashion,  and  having  the  air  about  them  of  the  superiority 
of  conscious  wealth  and  beauty  !  This  was  the  world  which  I 
was  asked  to  enter — I,  a  waif  and  stray,  a  nobody,  an  insignifi- 
cant fraction  of  that  other  world  of  hard  work  and  narrow  means, 
of  small  hopes  and  few  enjoyments.  I  did  enter  it,  almost  against 
my  inclination  ;  and  I  saw  for  the  first  time  how  these  rich  and 
beautiful  people  passed  day  after  day,  week  after  week — the  round 
of  brilliant  pleasures  they  enjoyed,  the  gay  scenes  and  pleasant 
excitements  which  were  always  pressing  upon  them,  their  courte- 
ous ways  and  manners,  their  kindness,  amiability,  frivolity.  Any- 
body acquainted  with  the  ordinary  life  of  fashionable  people  could 
describe  it  in  a  few  words ;  but  to  me  it  was  all  new  and  won- 
derful. 

At  one  o'clock  we  presented  ourselves  at  the  Lewisons'.  There 
were  a  number  of  people  there ;  and  they  were  quite  different 
from  the  people  I  had  met  at  their  house  before.  The  aesthetic 
element  was  nearly  wholly  absent.  Instead  of  sculptors  and 
authors,  and  what  not,  the  party  consisted  of  very  grand  people 
who  happened  to  be  visiting  Brighton — among  them  a  viscount. 
I  looked  at  this  gentleman  with  awe.  He  was  a  small,  thin,  gray- 
haired  man,  who  paid  particular  attention  to  his  plate,  and  mut- 
tered to  himself  his  comments  on  what  other  people  were  saying. 
His  wife  was  a  young  and  pretty  woman,  who  exhibited  all  the 
little  coquetries  of  a  girl,  and  was  especially  amiable  to  Heather- 
leigh,  beside  whom  she  sat.  I  sat  between  her  and  Miss  Lesley; 
and  when  the  viscountess  happened  to  say  something  to  me,  which 
she  did  with  a  smile  that  made  you  fancy  you  had  known  her  for 


KILMEJsY. 


j'ears,  I  was  in  great  straits  to  know  whether  I  should,  in  answer- 
ing her,  address  her  by  her  title.  As  I  was  not  quite  sure,  how- 
ever, what  that  was,  I  forbore,  and  hoped  I  was  not  guilty  of  some 
appalling  rudeness. 

Jiut  ior  my  being  beside  Bonnie  Lesley,  perhaps  I  should  have 
been  overwhelmed  by  this  assemblage  of  grand  people.  No  soon- 
er, however,  had  we  re-established  our  old  relations  with  each 
other,  and  these  consisted  of  many  little  secret  understandings, 
which  were  very  pleasant  to  ourselves,  than  I  forgot  all  about  the 
other  persons  present.  She  and  I  talked  exclusively  with  each 
other,  despite  the  efforts  of  one  or  two  gentlemen  to  engage  her 
in  conversation  across  the  table.  I  noticed  that  more  than  one  of 
them  regarded  me  with  a  stare  of  stolid  surprise,  when  she  per- 
sistently turned  and  talke<l  to  me  in  \wv  contidential  way. 

"You  have  no  other  companion,  then,  down  here  than  Heather- 
leigh  ?"  she  asked. 

"  No." 

"Don't  you  find  him  dull  at  times?" 

"  Never.     He  is  the  best  companion  I  could  wish  for." 

"  How  strange  !"  she  said,  with  a  pretty  smile.  "  But,  even  if 
he  is  so  pleasant  a  companion,  you  can't  always  go  about  with 
him.  You  will  see  him  captured  by  somebody  when  lunch  is 
over;  and  he  will  be  taken  otf  to  drive  with  some  of  those  ladies. 
So  shall  I,  probably ;  or  perhaps  some  of  those  gentlemen  over 
there  will  thrust  themselves  upon  us.  Now,  what  do  you  say  to 
our  going  off  at  once,  the  moment  they  rise  from  table?  The 
mail-phaeton  is  to  be  round  in  a  few  minutes:  what  if  we  slip 
down-stairs,  and  go  off  without  warning?" 

"  Nothing  could  be  better." 

"  You  won't  be  afraid  if  I  drive  ?" 

"Certainly  not.  But  you  need  not  drive,  unless  you  like.  I 
have  had  lots  of  experience  with  horses  in  the  country." 

"Thank  you,  but  I  am  passionately  fond  of  driving;  and  as 
they  never  will  let  nie  take  out  those  horses  by  myself,  I  mean  to 
secure  tliem  to-day  by  stratagem." 

So  it  was  arranged;  and  1  was  delighted  with  the  arrangement, 
not  expecting  that  it  would  lead  to  a  little  scene.  The  moment 
we  were  free,  she  and  I  slipped  out  of  the  room,  and  I  went 
down-stairs,  while  she  weiil  to  eliaiige  her  attire.  The  carriage  was 
there,  ;in<l  I  Iia<l  had   sutlicieuf   acijuaiutanee   with  the  horses  at 


LEWES    CASTLE.  89 

Burnhara  House  to  see  that  one  of  the  pair  harnessed  to  this 
phaeton  was  rather  a  restive  animal,  which  the  groom  was  tr3ing 
as  well  as  he  could  to  pacify.  Presently  Bonnie  Lesley  appeared, 
with  a  flush  of  pleasure  on  her  fine  face.  More  than  one  passer-by 
turned  to  look  at  her  as  she  got  up  into  the  high  seat,  and  took 
the  reins  in  her  fingers,  while  the  other  hand,  small  and  tightly 
gloved,  held  the  whip  in  the  most  artistic  fashion.  Suddenly 
Heatherleigh  came  running  down. 

"  Really,  Miss  Lesley,  you  must  not — " 

"  I  will,"  she  said,  rapidly  and  in  a  low  voice,  while  she  cut  at 
the  neck  of  the  restive  horse  with  her  whip.  The  animal  would 
have  sprung  forward ;  but  Heatherleigh  had  rushed  to  its  head 
(displacing  the  groom)  and  tried  to  hold  it.  Of  course  the  horse 
plunged  and  reared. 

"  I  tell  you.  Miss  Lesley,"  said  Heatherleigh,  "  you  will  kill 
yourself  and  him,  too." 

The  girl's  face  turned  white  with  a  spasm  of  anger. 

"Are  you  afraid?"  she  said  to  me,  abruptly. 

"No."" 

"  Will  you  go  with  me  ?" 

"  Certainly." 

With  that  she  made  a  cut  at  the  neck  of  the  near  horse  with 
her  whip,  and  then  caught  the  other,  which  Heatherleigh  was 
holding,  over  the  ear.  Both  horses  sprang  forward,  nearly  knock- 
ing him  to  the  ground ;  and  the  next  minute  we  were  dashing 
madly  along  the  Parade,  while  Miss  Lesley  sat  cold  and  firm,  with- 
out moving  a  muscle. 

Then  she  burst  into  a  laugh  of  downright,  unaffected  merri- 
ment. 

"  I  hope  I  didn't  knock  him  over  ;  but  I  half  expected  he  would 
come  out,  and  I  was  determined  to  have  my  own  way  for  once. 
I  am  so  very  much  obliged  to  you  for  coming ;  and  I  will  take 
the  greatest  care  of  you.  No,  you  needn't  laugh :  I  fancy  you 
looked  afraid  when  you  got  up." 

"  If  I  had  been  afraid,"  I  said,  "  1  should  have  been  none  the 
less  delighted  to  come." 

"Why?" 

She  withdrew  her  eyes  for  a  moiuent  from  the  horses'  heads  and 
fixed  them  on  my  face  with  her  ordinary  look  of  bright  wonder. 
Under  other  circumstances  I  might  have  felt  embarrassed  b}-  this 


90  KILMENY. 

awkward  question  ;  but  driving  through  the  cool  wind,  in  the  brill- 
iant sunlight,  and  perched  up  beside  the  handsomest  woman  in 
Brighton,  who  could  have  failed  to  acquire  some  boldness  I 

"  The  pleasure  of  being  beside  you  might  make  one  risk  a  much 
greater  danger  than  this ;  and  you  knew  that  when  you  asked  me 
to  come." 

She  laughed  a  charming  and  unaffected  little  laugh,  and  was 
evidently  greatly  pleased — why,  I  was,  long  afterwards,  to  find 
out, 

"  Shall  we  turn  and  drive  back  along  the  Parade  and  the  King's 
Road?" 

"  As  you  like." 

"  People  will  stare  at  us^  if  I  drive." 

"  Why  should  you  care  ?" 

"  There  are  such  a  lot  of  carriages  out  at  this  time." 

"  Come,"  I  said,  "  confess  that  you  want  me  to  urge  you  to  do 
it — and  I  do." 

She  wheeled  round  the  horses  very  cleverly  ;  and  soon  we  were 
again  clattering  along  the  Parade.  When  we  got  into  the  thick 
of  the  carriages  in  the  King's  Road,  it  was  astonishing  to  sec  the 
number  of  people,  mostly  gentlemen,  who  bowed  to  her.  Every 
one  looked  at  her — as  well  they  might;  for  in  all  that  brilliant 
throng  there  was  neither  girl  nor  woman  to  be  compared  with  her. 

"  There  is  Mr.  Heatherleigh,"  she  said  to  me. 

He  was  seated  in  aji  open  carriage,  with  two  ladies  and  another 
gentleman.  As  they  approached,  I  saw  that  one  of  the  ladies  was 
the  viscountess  whom  I  had  seen  at  lunch,  and  I  supposed  that 
the  gentleman  opposite  her  was  her  husband.  He  and  Heather- 
leigh had  their  backs  towards  us,  and,  of  course,  could  not  see  us. 

"  I  am  getting  tired  of  this.  What  ilo  you  say  to  going  for  a 
short  drive  into  the  country  ?" 

Having  made  some  inquiries  about  the  horses  of  the  man  who 
was  in  the  small  box  behind,  it  was  finally  arranged  that  we  should 
drive  to  Lewes.  I  was  glad  to  get  away  from  the  crowded  thor- 
oughfare, and  into  the  sweet-smelling  country  roads.  The  sum- 
mer was  at  its  brightest  and  greenest ;  and  we  had  no  sooner  left 
the  town,  and  got  into  the  quiet  of  meadows  and  cornfields,  than 
Miss  Lesley  regained  her  equanimity,  and  began  to  talk  in  her 
usual  fhccrful  and  confidential  way.  Indeed,  I  was  very  much 
struck   by  the   rapid   fashion   in   which   vexations  passed  off  hei 


LEWES    CASTLE.  91 

mind.  While  she  had  been  bitterly  angry  with  Heatherleigh  at 
the  moment  of  starting,  three  seconds  had  sufficed  to  chase  away 
her  resentment  and  restore  her  ordinary  good-nature.  Her  temper 
was  like  a  delicately  balanced  pair  of  scales  :  a  touch  of  }]our  finger 
would  produce  a  great  disturbance,  but  the  disturbance  never  last- 
ed above  a  moment. 

What  a  pleasant  drive  it  was,  through  the  cool  avenues  of  trees, 
and  out  again  into  the  glare  of  the  sunlight,  with  the  broad  white 
road  lying  like  a  line  of  silver  between  the  dark-green  meadows 
and  fields.  Here  and  there  they  had  begun  to  cut  the  tall  clover, 
and  from  the  cleared  portions  of  the  fields  the  piles  of  gray-green 
hay  sent  us  the  warm,  sweet  odor  which  makes  the  summer  gra- 
cious. But  for  the  most  part  the  grass  was  still  standing  ;  and  the 
light  breeze  that  went  over  it  stirred  the  smooth  velvet  plain  into 
waves  of  shimmering  gray,  while  it  rustled  across  the  great  corn- 
fields and  swayed  the  as  yet  unripe  ears  of  the  wheat.  The  coun- 
try was  as  still  and  silent  as  the  unfathomable  blue  that  stretched 
overhead ;  you  only  heard  the  far-off  call  of  the  cuckoo  from  some 
distant  wood. 

At  length  we  reached  the  old-fashioned  and  picturesque  tovvn, 
with  its  quaint  and  clean  streets,  its  sudden  descents,  its  ancient 
churches,  and  its  fine  old  castle.  If  a  stranger  wished  to  see  a 
typical  English  country  town,  homely,  quiet,  and  bright,  with 
neither  the  pestilence  of  manufactories  in  the  air  nor  the  vices  of 
fashion  visible  in  the  streets,  could  he  do  better  than  visit  Lewes  ? 
I  had  never  been  to  Lewes ;  but  I  was  proud  of  it,  for  Miss  Les- 
ley's sake.  She,  too,  was  a  stranger  to  the  place ;  and,  after  she 
had  delivered  over  the  horses  to  the  man  to  be  put  up,  we  started 
on  an  exploring  expedition.  We  went  down  the  hilly  streets,  and 
through  quiet  thoroughfares,  and  out  to  the  precipitous  chalk 
hills  which  surround  the  outskirts ;  then  we  returned  to  the  Cas- 
tle, and  clambered  up  the  wooded  old  ruin,  where  the  sunlight 
was  straggling  down  through  the  elms  and  chestnuts.  We  were 
the  only  visitors ;  and  when  we  had  got  right  up  to  the  top  of  the 
tower,  we  found  ourselves  alone,  for  the  portly  and  good-humored 
seneschal  remained  below. 

The  view  from  the  top  of  Lewes  Castle,  as  everybody  knows,  is 
one  of  the  finest  in  England ;  and  on  this  particular  day  the 
splendid  plain,  with  its  woods  and  hills  and  valleys,  lay  in  the 
warm  sunshine  and  shone.     I  think  such  a  view,  whether  in  sun- 


92  KILMENY. 

light  or  not,  is  rather  sa(ldcnin<>- — i)LMliap,s  it  was  so  to  mc  because 
it  so  closely  resembled  that  stretch  of  Biickinghainshire  country 
which  was  connected  in  my  mind  with  so  many  old  memories. 
However,  Boimie  Lesley  leaned  on  the  parapet,  and  gazed  long  and 
wistfully  over  the  great  extent  of  country  that  lay  so  peacefully 
under  the  summer  sky.  Suddenly  she  spoke,  and  I  saw  that  she 
had  not  been  dreaming  dreams  of  by -gone  times. 

"Did  you  think  I  was  very  angry  when  Mr.  Heathcrleigh  tried 
to  sto})  the  horses  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"  You  saw  how  soon  I  got  over  it  ?" 

"Yes." 

"  Would  you  consider  that  a  fault?" 

"  What,  a'  fault  to  get  rid  of  anger  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"  I  should  consider  it — and  did — a  sign  of  great  good-nature." 

"  Mr.  Ileatherleigh  would  say  it  was  a  weakness." 

She  turned  and  said  this  to  me  with  a  show  of  petulance,  and 
there  was  a  kind  of  woikUm"  in  her  eyes. 

"  1  think  you  mistake  Heathcrleigh  altogether,"  I  said,  "or  else 
there  is  a  misunderstanding  on  both  sides." 

She  laughed. 

"  Is  that  a  question  ?  There  is  no  mystery  between  us.  He 
says  I  am  incapable  of  mystery,  among  other  things." 

"  Heatherleigh  couldn't  say  anything  so  idiotic.  Why  should 
anybody  want  to  be  mysterious?" 

"  Perhaps  it  isn't  mystery,  entirely,  that  I  mean.  But,  tell  me, 
you  and  he  arc  very  much  alike  in  your  tastes?" 

"Very  nuich,  indeed." 

"  You  care  for  the  same  sort  of  people  ;  you  have  the  same  no- 
tions of  things;  you  have  the  same  sort  of  nature,  in  short?" 

"Pretty  much  the  same  in  most  things,"  I  said,  "but  very  dif- 
ferent in  others." 

"You  like  the  same  sort  of  people?" 

"  Yes,  I  think  so." 

"And  you  said  it  was  a  pleasure  to  you  to  come  with  me?" 

"You  know  that  it  is." 

She  laughed  again. 

\u\i  must  remember  that  this  was  the  first  "fine  lady"  with 
ulioni  1  had  ever  been  privileged  to  be  on  any  terms  of  intimacy  ; 


LEWES    CASTLE.  93 

and  that  I  found  nothing  singular  or  abnormal  in  her  peculiarly 
frank  way  of  talking.  I  was  not  aware  that  thei-e  was  a  touch  of 
the  Bohemienne  in  her  manner  and  conduct.  I  knew  nothing  of 
the  extreme  restraint  that  society  imjioses  on  the  speech  and  gen- 
eral relations  of  young  and  unmarried  folks.  I  saw  that,  among 
other  people,  Bonnie  Lesley  was  as  reserved  and  ceremonious  as 
any ;  and  fancied  that  there  was  nothing  unusual  in  her  childlike 
confidence  and  her  self-disclosures,  when  it  had  pleased  her  to 
break  the  bounds  of  formality  between  herself  and  me.  And  this 
boldness  of  hers  naturally  encouraged  me  to  be  bold.  I  did  not 
know  that  I  was  sinning  against  the  laws  of  society,  and  offending 
the  canons  of  good  taste,  in  showing  her  what  I  thought  of  her 
good  looks,  and  in  expressing  gratitude  for  her  special  favor  to 
myself. 

Doubtless  she  perceived  this ;  and  was  provoked  in  exaggerat- 
ing the  license  of  her  frankness  through  some  notion  of  the  humor 
of  the  position.  If  she  encouraged  me,  my  simplicity  encoui'aged 
her.  My  ignorance  of  the  customs  of  good  society  had  produced 
in  me  that  peculiarity  of  which  Polly  Whistler  spoke — I  was  un- 
able to  see  why  a  man  and  a  woman  should  not  be  as  intimate  in 
their  confidences  as  two  women,  and  I  never  could  teach  myself 
the  least  embarrassment  in  speaking  honestly  to  a  woman.  Tliis 
much  by  way  of  explanation,  or  excuse,  for  much  that  happened 
then,  and  will  have  to  be  recorded  afterwards. 

"  Will  you  consider  me  egotistical,"  she  continued,  "  if  I  ask 
you  to  tell  me  what  you  think  of  me  ?" 

"  I  daren't,"  I  said. 

"  What !"  she  replied,  turning  her  eyes  upon  me,  with  a  look 
of  amused  surprise  in  them,  "  are  you  afraid  to  tell  me  the  truth  ? 
And  is  it  because  you  would  have  too  many  cruel  things,  or  too 
many  pretty  things,  to  say  to  me  ?  But  do  let  me  hear  what  you 
would  say,  in  any  case.      I  shall  not  be  angry." 

"  Well,"  I  said,  "  I  think  you  are  very  kind." 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"  I  think  you  are  very  courageous  and  independent  in  your 
kindness.  For  instance,  you  leave  all  your  friends  to  come  here 
with  me,  who  am  almost  a  stranger  to  you,  and  you  make  friends 
with  me  instead  of — " 

"  All  that  is  nothing,"  she  said. 

"  Then  you  are  very  amiable." 


94  KILMENY. 

"  W^ell  ?" 

"  And  remarkably  good-natured." 

"  Well  ?" 

"  Very  frank." 

"  Well  r 

Here  I  stopped,  not  knowing  how  to  describe  her  disposition 
further,  whereupon  she  cried  out  impatiently — 

"  Don't  you  see  ?  That  is  the  very  thing.  I  am  amiable  and 
good-tempered  and  kind  :  is  that  all  you  say  ?  Why  not  say  I  am 
desperately  revengeful  or  cunning  or  })assionate  or  morose — any- 
thing gloomy  and  deep  and  hideous  ?  He  says  there  is  no  back- 
ground to  my  disposition — " 

"And  pray  who  could  have  said  anything  so  abominable  and 
wrong  ?"  said  a  new  voice,  and  Heatherleigh  appeared  at  the  top 
uf  the  stairs,  and  stepped  out  upon  the  leaden  roof  of  the  tower. 

Miss  Lesley  turned  with  a  start  to  see  who  was  the  speaker,  and, 
when  she  saw  who  had  overheard  her,  she  stamped  her  foot  with 
an  involuntary  spasm  of  vexation.  Then  she  crimsoned  deeply, 
bit  her  lip,  and  turned  contemptuously  away,  pretending  to  look 
out  upon  the  plain. 

"  Pray  forgive  me  for  breaking  in  upon  you.  Miss  Lesley,"  said 
Heatherleigh,  who  seemed  rather  amused  by  the  scene,  "  but  I 
could  not  help  riding  after  you  to  see  that  no  danger  befell  you. 
Come, don't  be  angry,  if  I  interrupted  your  tete-a-tete  at  an  awk- 
ward moment — upon  my  honor,  1  had  no  intention  of  doing  so. 
I  have  been  waiting  for  you  at  the  foot  of  the  tower  for  a  long 
time;  then  I  tho\ight  I'd  be  able  to  point  out  some  objects  of  in- 
terest to  you  if  I  came  up." 

"You  are  very  kind,"  she  said,  coldly. 

"  Come,  Ted,"  he  said,  "  be  niy  intercessor.     Plead  for  me." 

But  Miss  Lesley  turned  around,  with  a  smile  breaking  through 
the  coldness  of  her  look,  and  said — 

"  We  will  forgive  you,  if  you  fulfil  your  promise.  Tell  us  every- 
thing you  know  about  the  place." 

Which  he  did — for  he  had  lived  in  Lewes,  and  studied  its  his- 
tory and  traditions  and  legends;  told  us  such  stories  of  friars  and 
kings  and  knights,  of  battles  and  sieges  and  monkish  exploits, 
that  th<'  place  appeared  to  me  enchanted.  It  seemed  as  though 
that  old  and  be;iiitiful  and  picturesque  time  was  divided  from  us 
by   some  thin   veil  of  mist;   and  that,  if  we  went  down  there, 


LEWES    CASTLE.  95 

might  it  not  return  to  the  still,  quiet  town  ?  How  long  ago  was 
it  that  the  cold  winter  days  awoke  to  find  the  Saxon  farm-people 
overlorded  by  the  fierce  and  drunken  sea-pirates  of  the  North, 
while  Alfred  the  King  and  his  small  court  lay  hiding  in  the 
swamps  of  Athelney,  planning  a  sudden  raid  upon  them  ?  How 
long  ago  was  it  that  Canute,  sailing  through  the  yellow  sea-fog  of 
the  morning,  heard  the  monks  of  Ely  singing,  and  bade  his  knights 
row  near  the  land  ?  The  time  came  quite  near  to  us  ;  English  his- 
tory seemed  to  be  around  us ;  and  as  we  leaned  upon  the  old  wall 
and  looked  down  on  those  fields  and  mounds  into  which  genera- 
tion after  generation  of  Saxons  and  Normans  and  English  had 
peacefully  passed,  there  came  up  to  us  the  slow,  soft  notes  of  an 
organ,  which  was  being  played  in  one  of  the  churches.  It  was 
probably  only  the  work  of  some  amateur  player,  trying  over  some 
new  chants ;  but  as  it  reached  us — so  faintly  that  we  lost  it  oc- 
casionally— it  seemed  a  breath  from  these  old  forgotten  times,  full 
of  mystery  and  pathos  and  sadness. 

Miss  Lesley  uttered  a  light  cry  ;  she  had  dropped  her  glove  over 
the  wall. 

"Jump  down  for  it,"  she  said  to  me  ;  "  or  shall  we  all  go  down  ? 
The  horses  must  have  rested  sufficiently  by  this  time  ;  and  that 
young  one  especially  gets  fidgety  if  he  is  kept  long  in  strange 
stables.     I  hope  he  won't  run  away  with  me." 

"  If  he  were  a  more  intelligent  animal,  he  might  be  excused," 
said  Heatherleigh,  with  a  smile. 

Bonnie  Lesley  blushed  slightly,  and  said,  rather  inappropriate- 
ly- 

"  Oh,  you  think  that  men  are  superior  to  all  the  other  ani- 
mals ?" 

"  In  some  things  only,"  he  said.  "  As  food,  for  instance,  men 
are  inferior  to  sheep." 

I  could  not  help  reflecting  what  a  rejoinder  Polly  Whistler  would 
have  made  at  this  moment.  Indeed,  I  sometimes  wished  that  Miss 
Lesley,  with  all  her  splendid  graces  and  accomplishments,  could 
possess  herself  of  Polly's  wit  and  gay  humor  and  brightness.  But 
would  not  a  perfect  woman  be  a  monster?  Surely  Bonnie  Lesley 
had  enough  of  what  was  beautiful  and  desirable  in  woman  ! 

When  we  had  gone  down  to  the  hotel,  and  ordered  the  man  to 
get  out  the  liorses,  Heatherleigh  came  up  to  me,  and  said  (Miss 
Lesley  was  not  within  hearing) — 


96  KILMENY. 

"  You  can  ride,  can  yon  not?" 

"No;  but  I  can  stick  on  the  back  of  a  horse  like  a  leech." 

"  Will  vou  ride  my  horse  home,  and  let  me  go  in  the  phaeton?" 

"  Are  you  tired  ?" 

"  No—" 

"  Then  why  do  you  want  to  exchange  ?" 

"I  can't  tell  you  just  now — " 

"Well,  I'd  rather  go  back  in  the  phaeton.  You  seem  not  to 
like  Miss  Lesley ;   why  sliould  yon  want  to  go  with  her  ?" 

"Very  well,"  he  said,  turning  ;i\\,., . 

There  was  no  look  of  disapjtointment  or  vexation  on  his  face; 
but  there  was  a  meaning  in  the  tone  of  his  voice  which  1  could 
not  understand.  Then  his  anxiety  that  she  and  I  should  not  go 
off  together — his  sudden  appearance  at  the  old  castle — this  pres- 
ent desire  to  separate  us — what  could  it  all  mean  ? 

Was  he  jealous  of  the  favor  which  Miss  Lesley,  in  her  thought- 
less good-nature,  was  so  liberally  extending  to  me  !  I  was  irre- 
sistibly driven  to  this  conclusion  ;  and  n)y  old  friend,  if  he  should 
happen  to  read  these  confessions,  will  understand  that  1  now  re- 
'■ord  the  fact  with  shame. 

That  notion  took  possession  of  me,  and  by  its  false  light  I  read 
all  the  occurrences  which  happened  at  this  time.  On  that  very 
night — after  Bonnie  Lesley  had  driven  home  in  tinn'  for  dinner — 
Ileatherleigh  and  I  dined  at  a  big  new  restaurant  in  West  Street. 
lie  spoke  of  what  had  happened  at  Lewes  Castle. 

"  1  only  caught  the  last  sentence  ;  but  I  knew  that  she  had  been 
speaking  of  what  I  had  said  about  lier,  and  as  I  did  not  wish  to 
hear  more,  I  broke  in  upon  you." 

"Then  you  di<l  say  that?" 

"  I  did,  and  do.  Tlu-  girl  is  in  manv  res])ects  a  verv  good  sort 
of  cri'atiin';  I)Ut  she  has  no  iiioi'c  pcrmanciice  or(lc[)tli  of  charac- 
ter than  a  sheet  of  tissue-paper." 

"  Her  good-nature — " 

"  Her  good-nature  is  negative.  It  is  tlie  absence  of  the  power 
to  be  really  angry.  She  has  not  depth  of  natiii'e  enough  even  to 
feel  a  j)roper  resentment  against  anybody  or  an\tliing.  She  has 
no  emotional  capacity  whatever.  She  admires  everything  in  a 
pretty  and  careless  wav,  and  admires  everything  to  the  same  ex- 
tent. She  loves  and  liates  and  wonders,  all  in  this  slight  and 
superficial  fashion — " 


LEWES    CASTLE.  97 

"  For  goodness'  sake,  stop,"  I  said  to  liim.  "  Wlien  you  begin 
to  talk  about  Miss  Lesley,  you  lose  your  reason.  What  has  she 
done  to  you,  that  you  should  be  so  savage  ?  And  if  she  is  so 
feeble  and  frivolous  a  creature,  why  were  you  so  anxious  to  enjoy 
her  society  that  you  rode  all  the  way  to  Lewes,  and  why  did  you 
want  to  go  back  with  her  in  the  phaeton  ?" 

He  looked  at  me  for  a  few  seconds. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  you  have  your  troubles  to  come ;  and  it 
doesn't  matter  which  woman  it  is  who  opens  your  eyes.  Do  you 
remember  when  Polly  and  I  were  talking  nonsense  about  the  ne- 
cessity of  a  young  artist's  having  his  heart  broken  ?" 

"Yes." 

"  And  I  proposed  to  make  Bonnie  Lesley  the  operator  in  your 
case." 

"Yes." 

"  That  was  a  joke ;  and  I  did  not  think  that  Bonnie  Lesley 
would  have  taken  the  whim  that  she  has  taken.  But  if  I  were  to 
tell  you  why  the  girl  is  petting  you,  you — with  your  sublime  faith 
in  the  virtue  of  everybody — would  not  believe  me." 

"  Certainly  not,"  I  said,  "  if  you  proposed  to  tell  me  that  the 
girl  was  acting  unworthily.  Why,  it  is  too  absurd.  Take  your 
own  position — that  she  is  kind  to  me  for  some  particular  purpose 
of  her  own  ;  and  how  does  that  affect  me  ?  I  find  a  warm-heart- 
ed and  generous  girl,  whom  everybody  (except  one)  admires ;  and 
she  chooses  to  make  friends  with  me,  who  am  too  young  to  be 
of  any  importance  to  her  or  to  anybody  else — " 

"Younger  men  than  you  have  run  away  with  pretty  girls,  and 
married  them.  Consequently,  younger  men  than  you  have  been 
led  into  the  notion  that  they  might  do  so,  and,  finding  themselves 
mistaken,  may  have  had  their  faith  in  human  nature  destroyed 
and  their  lives  ruined.  I  warn  you,  Ted,  not  to  continue  your 
friendship  with  this  girl.  I  rode  out  to  Lewes  to  separate  you  ; 
and  I  would  have  ridden  as  far  again  ;  for  your  sake  alone,  under- 
stand me.  Perhaps,  as  it  was,  I  saved  you  from  a  danger  that 
might  have  befallen  you  in  a  few  minutes — " 

The  thought  that  these  words  suggested  was  so  horrible  that  I 
started  back  from  it.  I  sprang  to  my  feet — my  face,  I  knew,  was 
as  white  as  death,  and  my  heart  seemed  choking.     I  said  to  him — 

"  You  have  been  my  friend,  and  I  am  grateful ;  but,  as  sure  as 
I  live,  I  will  never  listen  to  another  word  from  your  lips." 

E 


98  KILMENY. 

I  rushed  out  of  tlie  place :  he  followed,  but  he  liad  to  stop  for 
a  monieut  or  two  to  explain  to  the  waiter.  This  saved  me.  I 
walked  about  all  night ;  and  took  the  first  train  in  the  morning 
for  London. 


CHAPTER  X. 

POLLY      AND      HE. 


T  WAS  hasty  enough,  I  know ;  but  I  was  beside  myself  with  in- 
dignation. For  Heatherleigh  to  talk  of  my  losing  faith  in  human 
nature  through  some  possible  underhand  dealing  on  the  part  of 
Miss  Lesley  seemed  absurd  when  I  considered  that  he,  without  any 
proof  or  reason  or  excuse,  suggested  about  an  honest  and  good- 
hearted  girl  what  his  words  dared  not  state  explicitly.  Wliat 
danger  ? — and  to  me  !  Why,  so  great  was  my  sense  of  that  beau- 
tiful creature's  bounty  in  even  regarding  me  and  speaking  to  me, 
that  I  should  have  been  only  too  willing  to  suffer  anything  to  give 
her  a  moment's  pleasure.  And  it  was  out  of  the  question  that 
any  suffering  of  mine  could  affect  her  in  any  way.  Suppose  she 
was  one  of  those  impossible  women  who  are  supposed  to  go  about 
the  world  in  order  to  imperil  men's  soiils  by  breaking  their  hearts 
— suppose  she  liked  to  boast  of  conquests  as  a  savage  points  to 
the  number  of  his  scal{)s,  was  it  likely  she  would  care  to  make  a 
conquest  of  me  ?  There  were  a  dozen  men  in  Brighton  at  that 
time  anxious  to  have  the  honor  of  being  her  victims.  They  hov- 
ered around  her,  knowing  that  all  of  them  could  not  marry  her, 
and  certain  that  all,  except  some  particular  one,  must  be  disap- 
pointed. To  catch  a  smile  or  a  word,  or  the  pleasure  of  handing 
lier  a  fan,  they  sought  her  society  at  this  risk ;  and  it  was  not  to 
be  considered  that  she  should  turn  aside  from  these  suitors,  who 
had  every  advantage  of  age  and  position  and  money,  to  me,  as 
one  likely  to  flirt  with  or  make  love  to  her.  Why  she  should  in 
any  case  have  shown  nic  such  favor  was  sufficient  of  a  mystery  ; 
and  it  was  explicable  only  on  the  ground  of  her  disinterested 
good-nature  and  that  independence  of  kindness  which  I  had  ob- 
served in  her. 

As  I  was  g<jing  up  IIaMi])stcad  Road  to  my  lodgings,  on  the 
uiorning  of  my   hurried  departure  from   Brighton,  1  met  Polly 


POLLY    AND    HE.  99 

Whistler,  I  sliook  liands  with  her  heartily ;  for  I  was  glad  to 
see  some  face  that  I  knew.  It  was  my  first  estrangement  from 
Heatherleigh ;  and  all  the  world  seemed  to  have  grown  cold  and 
distrustful. 

"  What  are  you  doing  here,  Ted  ?"  she  said. 

"  I  should  like  to  tell  you,  Polly ;  but  it  is  a  long  story. 
Where  are  you  going  ?" 

"  I  was  to  sit  to  Mr.  Frances  at  ten  o'clock,  in  place  of  that 
Italian  girl — only  for  the  costume,  you  know.  I  don't  look  like 
an  Italian  peasant  girl,  do  I  ?  However,  come  along  with  me,  and 
I  will  tell  him  I  can't  sit  for  him  this  morning.  He  must  wait 
for  her  until  to-morrow.  Then  we  can  take  a  walk  in  Regent's 
Park,  and  you  will  tell  me  all  about  it." 

"  But  you  will  lose  the  sitting,"  I  suggested. 

"  I  don't  care  now,"  she  said,  rather  sadly.  "  I  used  to  like  to 
gather  a  few  shillings  you  know,  and  buy  little  things  for  the 
house  ;  but  my  mother — " 

I  understood  the  mother  not  only  took  the  girl's  earnings,  but 
sold  such  little  ornaments  or  luxuries  as  she  chose  to  buy.  So 
Polly  and  I  went  around  to  Regent's  Park ;  and  I  told  her  the 
whole  story.     She  was  deeply  interested  in  it. 

"And  do  you  think-he  is  in  love  with  her?"  she  asked,  with 
her  eyes  fixed  on  the  ground. 

"  No,"  I  said  ;  "  I  can't  say  that.  A  man  would  not  talk  about 
a  woman  in  that  way  if  he  was  in  love  with  her." 

Polly  was  very  thoughtful  for  some  time.  We  sat  down  on 
one  of  the  benches  underneath  the  great  lime-trees  fronting  the 
broad  stretch  of  the  park  that  lies  south  of  the  Zoological  Gar- 
dens. It  was  here  that  I  had  first  seen  Bonnie  Lesley.  There 
were  few  people  in  the  park  at  this  time ;  and  an  unusual  silence 
dwelt  around,  for  the  leaves  of  the  trees  scarcely  stirred  in  the 
warm  sunlight. 

"  Yoa  think  he  would  not  talk  like  that  if  he  was  in  love  with 
her  ?"  said  Polly.  "  Did  you  never  imagine  the  position  of  a  man 
who  is  compelled,  in  spite  of  himself,  to  love  a  girl  whom  he  con- 
siders unworthy  of  his  love  ?  Don't  you  think  he  would  be  bitter 
against  her,  and  bitterer  against  himself?  Would  he  not  be  like- 
ly to  laugh  at  the  folly  of  being  in  love ;  and  sneer  at  those  fem- 
inine arts  by  which  he  had  been  captivated?  Would  he  not  re- 
venge himself  in  that  way,  and  cover  his  own  weakness,  of  which 
he  is  ashamed  V 


100  KILMEN'V. 

It  seemed  to  me  that  tliis  bright  and  happy  girl  must  have  had 
her  moments  of  cruel  and  sad  reflection  before  she  could  have  hit 
upon  a  notion  like  that,  the  truth  of  which  flashed  upon  me  at 
once.     But  was  such  the  position  of  Heatherleigh  ? 

"  Come,"  she  said,  with  a  laugh,  "  what  have  you  and  I  to  do 
with  love  -  matters,  Ted?  They  are  for  rich  people,  who  have 
nothing  to  do  but  choose  whom  they  will  marry.  We  have  our 
living  to  look  after;  and  it  takes  us  all  our  time,  doesn't  it?  I 
wonder  if,  in  the  next  world,  we  shall  be  able  to  get  free  of  all 
these  things,  and  speak  to  each  other  of  what  might  have  been 
here  below?  It  would  be  like  a  Sunday  out  for  us  poor  people, 
if  we  were  to  get  such  a  chance.  Tliere — will  you  look  at  this 
thing,  that  I  copied  the  other  night?" 

With  a  sort  of  assumed  carelessness,  she  slipped  into  my  hand 
a  bit  of  paper,  which  I  unfolded.  There  wore  some  verses  on  it, 
written  in  her  own  handwriting,  which  I  knew.  It  was  very  cor- 
rect and  precise,  but  a  trifle  stiff :  she  had  taught  herself. 

The  verses,  so  far  as  I  can  remember,  began  with  these  lines — 

"  If  you  and  I  were  only  ghosts, 

Cut  off  from  human  cares  and  pains. 
To  walk  togetlier,  at  dead  of  night, 
Along  the  far  sidereal  plains — " 

and  went  on  to  say  how  they  would  forget  all  tlie  cruel  conditions 
that  had  separated  them  here  on  earth,  and  talk  to  each  other  of 
all  they  had  been  thinking  when  these  things  had  kept  them 
asunder.  Indeed,  the  lines,  touchingly  pathetic  here  and  awk- 
wardly constructed  tliere,  were  so  obviously  a  reproduction  of 
what  she  had  been  saying,  that  I  cried  out — 

"Oh,  Polly,  you  have  been  writing  poetry  !" 

"Nonsense!"  she  said,  with  an  embarrassment  and  blushing  I 
had  never  seen  her  exhibit.     "  I  told  you  I  had  copied  it." 

"  And  you  told  me  a  fib." 

She  put  her  arm  inside  mine  (she  had  slipj)ed  the  paper  into 
her  pocket  meanwhile),  and  said — 

"Come,  let  us  go  into  the  gardens.  I  have  got  a  shilling,  if 
you  have.  And  you  shall  tell  me  of  all  you  mean  to  do.  I  in- 
sist first,  though,  on  your  making  friends  with  Mr.  lleatlu'ilcigh." 

We  passed  into  the  Zoijiogical  (Jardcns,  and  we  strolled  about 
the  walks,  sometimes  talking  about  licit lierlcigh  and  Bonnie  Les- 
ley, stjmetimes  talking  ;ib<jnt  the  .•iiiiniajs  in  the  cages,     Polly  was 


POLLY    AND    HE.  101 

in  better  spirits  now ;  and  went  on  chatting  in  her  usual  bright 
and  happy  fashion.  I  wish  I  could  remember  a  tithe  of  the  re- 
marks she  made  about  the  animals — mad  interpretations  of  their 
feelings  and  opinions,  humorous  touches  of  description,  and  com- 
ical comparisons  of  every  kind.  From  cage  to  cage  we  went, 
from  enclosure  to  enclosure,  and  there  was  scarcely  a  bird  or  a 
beast  that  she  did  not  endow  with  human  feelings,  and  wonder 
what  each  was  thinking  of  at  the  time.  Some  of  these  anthro- 
pomorphic fancies  were  extraordinarily  ingenious,  and  they  flow- 
ed out  so  freely  and  spontaneously  as  to  charm  one  with  their 
constant  variety  and  novelty.  She  had  just  described  the  opinion 
probably  held  by  a  very  mangy-looking  hyena  about  Olfenbach's 
music,  as  played  by  the  band  of  the  Coldstream  Guards  opposite 
its  cage,  when  her  arm,  which  was  inside  mine,  gave  a  sudden 
start.     Heatherleigh  approached. 

The  expression  of  her  face  changed  instantly ;  and  she  seemed 
anxious  to  get  away  without  speaking.  However,  he  came  up, 
and  shook  hands  with  her,  and  asked,  in  his  old  friendly  way,  how 
she  was.  She  answered  him  very  coldly ;  and,  saying  that  he 
probably  wanted  to  speak  to  me,  was  going  off  by  herself. 

"  Don't  go  away  like  that,  Polly,"  said  he. 

"  At  least  let  me  go  with  you,"  said  I. 

"There  now,"  he  said,  with  a  peculiar  smile,  "  are  my  two  best 
friends — about  the  only  people  I  care  for — in  league  against  me, 
and  going  to  cut  me  !  Have  I  deserved  it  ?  At  any  rate  tell  me 
what  I  am  accused  of." 

"  I  don't  accuse  you  of  anything,  Mr.  Heatherleigh,"  said  Polly, 
in  a  low  voice,  "  but  I  wish  to  go  home." 

He  looked  at  her  for  a  moment  with  a  strange  look  in  his  face 
— a  look  of  infinite  compassion  and  tenderness.  I  thought  he 
would  have  seized  her  hand.  But  he  only  said,  in  a  graver 
voice — 

"  Don't  let  any  misunderstanding  remain  between  us  three. 
Life  is  not  long  enough  that  we  should  waste  it  in  quarrels ;  and 
friends  are  not  so  plentiful  that  we  can  afford  to  throw  them  off. 
Let  us  sit  down  on  this  seat.  There  now.  As  for  you,  Ted,  I 
will  bring  you  to  your  senses  in  a  moment.  You  misunderstood 
entirely  what  I  meant  about  Miss  Lesley.  But  say  that  you 
didn't ;  and  I  p)  ofess  myself  all  the  same  very  sorry,  and  I  will 
never  say  anything  against  her  again.     It  was  entirely  for  your 


102  KILMEXY. 

sake  that  I  spoke :  you  will  find  that  out  some  day,  when  yoa 
know  both  her  and  me  better.  I  say  that  I  regret  having  said 
what  I  did :  will  that  do  ?" 

I  nodded. 

"  Shall  we  be  friends,  then  ?" 

"  Certainly  ;  I  don't  see  how  we  could  have  been  anything  else 
under  any  circumstances.  But  your  conduct  towards  her  is  a 
mystery  to  me.  You  say  that  some  day  I  shall  think  otherwise 
about  her.  You  don't  suppose  I  am  in  love  with  her  ?  But,  so 
far  as  I  do  know  her,  I  know  you  do  her  a  great  injustice,  and 
last  night  what  you  said  was  simply — " 

"  There,  there,"  he  said,  "  we'll  have  no  more  about  that.  I 
regret  it;  and  you  will  think  no  more  about  it.  Is  it  a  bar- 
gain ?" 

"  I  am  onl}'  too  glad  to  be  friends  with  you  again  on  any 
terms ;  but  it  is  you  who  will  think  otherwise  in  time — unless 
your  present  opinion  of  her  is  only  a  pretence." 

"  And  now  for  you,  Polly ;  what  have  I  done  to  you  that  you 
should  try  to  avoid  me  ?" 

"  Nothing  at  all,  Mr.  Heatherleigh,"  said  Polly,  casting  down 
her  eyes;  "and  you  know  it." 

"  Why,  you  used  to  be  as  frank  with  me  as  the  daylight,  Polly," 
he  said.  "  When  I  came  around  the  park  in  search  of  Ted,  and 
when  young  Cartwright,  who  saw  you  both,  told  me  you  had 
come  in  here,  I  said  to  myself  that  I  should  have  an  ally  in 
bringing  him  to  reason.  Instead  of  which  I  have  both  of  you  to 
argue  with  ;  and  the  mischief  is  that  I  don't  know  what  it  is  we 
have  to  argue  about.  You  are  not  in  love  with  Bonnie  Lesley, 
Polly  ?" 

"  No." 

"Then  what  is  the  matter?" 

"  You  forget  how  we  parted  last,"  she  said,  in  a  low  voice. 

"  But  what  lias  that  to  do  with  me?"  he  said,  taking  her  liand. 

She  drew  her  hand  away,  and  said — 

"  It  has  nothing  to  do  with  you,  Mr.  Heatherleigh,  of  course, 
but — but  I  don't  wish  you  to  speak  to  mc  any  more — " 

SIjc  hastily  rose  from  her  seat,  and  left,  with  her  back  turned 
to  us.     He  would  have  followed  her;  but  I  restrained  him. 

"  Don't  shame  her  any  more,"  I  said  ;  "  she  is  crying." 

lie  bit  his  lip,  and  sat  silent  for  a  moment. 


POLLY    AND    HE.  103 

"  That  old  idiot !"  he  muttered  ;  "  why  should  her  nonsense  be 
regarded  by  us  who  are  sane  ?" 

"  By  and  by  Polly  will  have  forgotten  much  of  what  her 
mother  said,  and  may  not  be  ashamed  to  meet  you  ;  but  at  pres- 
ent—" 

"  Well,  at  present  ?"  he  said  ;  "  wasn't  she  chatting  just  as  usual 
to  you  when  I  came  up  ?" 

"  That  is  another  matter,"  I  said,  looking  hard  at  him. 

He  did  not  seem  to  draw  any  inference  from  the  words  :  he 
was  staring  at  the  path,  drawing  lines  on  the  gravel  with  his 
stick.  Eventually  I  persuaded  him  to  go  over  to  his  rooms,  say- 
ing that  I  would  follow  him. 

Then  I  went  in  search  of  Polly,  and  found  her. 

"  Is  he  gone  ?"  she  said. 

"  Yes,"  1  said. 

She  pressed  my  hand ;  and  we  went  slowly  towards  the  gate, 
without  a  word. 

"  Really,"  I  said  to  her,  in  crossing  over  the  park  on  our  way 
home,  "you  put  too  much  importance  on  what  passed  that  night. 
Heatherleigh  understands  that  your  mother  did  not  know  what 
she  was  saying;  and  he  is  very  sorry  that  it  should  have  oc- 
curred, and  is  vexed  that  it  should  alter  in  any  way  our  old  rela- 
tions. Don't  you  remember  the  jolly  evenings,  Polly,  when  we 
three  used  to  sit  all  by  ourselves  after  supper,  and  chat  until  near 
midnight  ?  You  know,  the  autumn  nights  will  be  coming  on 
again ;  what  shall  we  do  with  ourselves  if  we  are  never  to  naeet 
as  we  used  to  do  ?" 

"  You  are  very  kind,  Ted,"  she  said,  "  but  that  is  all  over." 

"  It  isn't  all  over,  Polly.  When  Heatherleigh  finally  comes 
back  from  Brighton — " 

"Do  you  think  I  can  ever  enter  his  house  again,  considering 
how  I  left  it?"  she  said,  with  just  a  touch  of  indignation  in  her 
voice.  "  Do  you  think  a  woman  has  no  sort  of  self-respect,  even 
although  she  is  a  model  ?  Oh,  I  hope  I  shall  never,  never  see  him 
again — for  it  kills  me  to  think  of  his  standing  in  that  room  and 
listening  to  all  the  cruel  things  she  said  of  me." 

I  saw  her  mouth  quivering,  and  her  breath  came  short  and 
quick.     Then  she  said — 

"  You  told  me  you  had  a  picture  at  your  lodgings,  Ted." 

"  Yes." 


104  KILMENT. 

"  Could  I — could  I  be  of  any  use  to  you  ?  We  are  both  poor, 
you  know — at  least  I  am  ;  but  I  have  plent}'  of  time,  and  I  should 
lite  to  come  and  sit  for  you.  Will  you  let  me  do  that  in  return 
for  your  kindness  ?" 

"  But  why  should  you  cry  about  it,  Polly  V  said  I. 

The  tears  were  streaming  down  the  poor  girl's  cheeks.  As  we 
passed  along,  I  knew  that  Heatherleigh  was  watching  us  from 
viader  the  shadow  of  one  of  the  trees ;  but  she  did  not  see  him. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

MR.  ALFRED    BURNHAM. 


T  WENT  down  to  Brighton  again  with  Heatherleigh,  and  re-en- 
tered that  strange  world  of  indolent  enjoyment,  of  luxury  and 
gayety,  of  day-dreaming  by  the  sea,  of  listening  to  Bonnie  Les- 
ley's pretty  voice,  and  looking  at  the  pretty  wonder  of  her  child- 
like eyes. 

What  chiefly  astonished  me  in  this  new  world  was  the  life  led 
by  the  young  men — the  young  Olympians  of  handsome  tigiire,  of 
faultless  dress,  and  unlimited  Cv)mmaiid  of  money,  who  drove 
their  mail-phaetons  in  such  splendid  style,  and  had  such  a  fine  in- 
difference to  the  presence  of  waiters.  Rather  against  my  will,  I 
was  dragged  into  their  society  by  Heatherleigh,  who  knew  several 
of  them  who  were  living  at  various  hotels.  So  far  as  I  was  con- 
cerned, I  could  not  help  admiring  the  free  and  easy  manner  with 
which  they  used  to  try  to  convince  me  that  I  was  their  equal.* 
I  was  too  much  impressed  by  their  manner  of  living,  however, 
ti)  tliink  of  myself  in  the  matter:  it  was  enough  for  me  to  watch 
tlie  actions  of  those  young  favorites  of  fortune,  with  their  irre- 
sistible coolness  and  self-possession,  and  their  unoonscituiabie  ex- 
penditure in  flowers,  gloves,  and  cigars.  Ilow  litllc  tliey  thought 
of  tossing  up  as  to  who  should  pay  for  a  dinner  for  four  or  five 
of  them,  which  cost,  at  a  moderate  computation,  eighteen  shillings 
a  head!  JIow  carelessly  they  would  hand  a  half-sovereign  to  the 
leader  of  the  band  which  used  to  play  in  front  of  the  hotel  at 
night !  With  wlmt  indifference  they  wrote  off  to  Poole  to  send 
them  down  a  couple  of  suits  of  clothes!     And  with  what  a  royal 


MR.  ALFRED    BURNHAM.  105 

magnanimity  they  dispensed  shillings  and  half-crowns  to  anybody 
who  did  them  the  smallest  service  ! 

There  was  one  among  them  who  was  never  guilty  of  these 
thoughtless  acts  of  generosity  or  extravagance ;  and  that  was  Mr. 
Alfred  Bui'nham.  Miss  Hester  Burnham,  I  heard,  liad  come 
down,  and  was  living  with  her  aunt — an  old  lady  who  had  a 
large  house  at  the  extreme  east  end  of  Brighton.  This  lady  I 
had  never  seen ;  but  I  knew  she  was  not  very  favorably  disposed 
cither  to  her  nephew,  Mr.  Alfred  Burnham,  or  to  his  father  and 
her  brother-in-law,  Colonel  Burnham.  Such,  at  least,  was  the 
gossip  down  in  Buckinghamshire,  and  it  was  so  far  corroborated 
by  the  fact  that  Mr.  Alfred  Burnham,  instead  of  living  at  her 
house,  stayed  at  a  hotel. 

I  detested  that  man,  and  everything  I  saw  and  heard  ()f  him  at 
Brighton  increased  the  bad  impression  I  received  from  his  cold 
and  calculating  eyes,  his  thin  lips,  and  selfish,  hard  face.  He  was 
handsome  enough,  in  one  way — indeed,  he  looked  like  the  best 
type  of  young  Englishman,  with  the  emotional  and  moral  quali- 
ties withdrawn.  He  had  a  good  physique,  good  complexion,  and 
excellent  manners,  of  a  somewhat  indifferent  and  blase  kind.  To 
women  he  could  be  exceedingly  agreeable,  when  he  chose ;  and 
then  he  would  turn  away,  with  a  lialf-concealed  look  of  weariness, 
as  if  he  rather  pitied  their  folly  in  being  pleasant  to  him.  In  the 
company  of  men,  he  was  chiefly  remarkable  for  his  constantly 
watchful  habit  of  making  the  most  of  current  circumstances — of 
winning  bets,  and  extricating  himself  from  the  necessity  of  pay- 
ing anything.  He  did  not  seem  to  care  to  shine  in  any  way.  H 
never  boasted  of  anything — not  even  of  his  successes  with  women. 
He  acknowledged  himself  ignorant  of  politics;  was  rather  inclined 
to  be  a  Conservative,  as  he  considered  the  Radicals  "  such  a  pack 
of  d — d  cads ;"  he  hunted  sometimes,  but  he  had  no  good  runs  or 
exciting  escapes  to  recount ;  he  shot  sometimes,  but  cared  nothing 
about  it. 

Here  is  a  little  incident  which  I  used  to  think  revealed  his  nat- 
ure admirably. 

He  and  two  or  three  others,  with  Heatherleigh  and  myself,  were 
going  into  the  Grand  Hotel.  I  may  say  here, 2)ar  jmirnthese,  that 
I  had  no  scruple  about  meeting  him.  I  did  not  care  whether  he 
remembered  or  not  that  he  had  given  me  half  a  crown  by  way  of 
alms.     I  disliked  him,  and  had  there  been  any  disposition  on  hi? 

E  2 


106  KILMENY. 

part  to  recall  that  incident  at  the  foot  of  White-cross  Hill,  I 
should  not  have  been  ashamed  of  it  in  his  presence.  As  it  was, 
he  made  no  difference  between  me  and  the  others,  except  that  he 
never  tried  to  make  bets  with  me. 

As  we  were  going  up  the  steps,  I  saw  him  linger  behind,  and 
drop  a  stone  on  the  ground.  I  could  not  understand  why  a  man 
should  have  been  carrying  a  stone  in  his  pocket,  but  paid  no  par- 
ticular attention  to  the  fact.  We  went  into  the  billiard -room, 
somebody  having  proposed  that  there  should  be  a  game  of  pool 
before  lunch.  Some  played,  others  looked  on,  and  bet  upon  who 
should  divide.  I  happened  to  sit  down  beside  a  young  barrister, 
with  whom  I  had  become  acquainted. 

"  I  fancy  you  noticed  Burnham  drop  a  stone  as  we  came  in," 
said  he  to  me. 

"  I  did." 

"  Come  out  with  me,  and  we'll  have  a  lark." 

We  left  the  billiard-room  together,  and  when  we  got  outside  he 
picked  up  the  stone  which  Alfred  Burnham  had  dropped. 

"  Now,"  said  he,  "  he's  up  to  some  trick.  He  means  to  bet 
about  that  stone — either  the  distance  it  lies  from  the  pavement, 
or  its  weight,  or  something  like  that.  He's  always  at  it;  and  he's 
not  above  trying  any  sort  of  dodge  if  he  thinks  he  can  get  a  fiver 
out  of  you.  Suppose  that  we  get  a  bit  of  string  and  measure  how 
far  the  stone  lies  from  the  pavement,  and  then  we  can  have  it 
weighed  ?" 

He  put  the  stone  down  again,  and  we  accurately  measured  the 
distance.  Then  we  went  into  the  tobacconist's  shop  at  the  cor- 
ner and  had  the  stone  weighed — seven  ounces  thirteen  drams  was 
the  result.  Finally  the  stone  was  put  back  in  its  place,  and  we  re- 
turned to  the  billiard-room, 

Burnham  was  in  high  spirits ;  he  had  won  a  sovereign,  betting 
three  to  one  that  Heathcrlcigh  would  divide  the  last  pool.  He 
offered  to  toss  double  or  quits  ;  but  the  offer  was  declined. 

We  went  into  the  room  in  which  luncheon  had  been  prepared 
for  us;  and  sat  down  at  the  prettily  decorated  table,  with  its  col- 
ored claret-glasses,  its  vases  of  flowers,  and — not  least  attractive 
— its  handsome  wine-coolers,  out  of  which  the  rounded  heads  and 
golden  necks  of  two  champagne-bottles  peeped.  And  out  there 
the  gay  crowd  rolled  past  in  its  handsome  carriages,  and  there  was 
a  glow  of  brilliantly  tinted  parasols,  and  bonnets  and  dresses,  along 


MR.  ALFRED    BURNHAM.  107 

the  pavement ;  and  then,  out  beyond  that  again,  lay  the  great  white 
sea  and  the  sunUght,  and  the  far-off  specks  of  sails. 

Heatherleigh  was  sitting  next  to  me,  and  I  begged  him  to  tell 
me  whose  guest  I  was. 

"  I  don't  know,"  he  said ;  "  it  doesn't  matter." 

"  Don't  you  know  whose  wine  you  are  drinking  ?" 

"  I  believe  a  person  of  the  name  of  Roderer  is  the  excellent 
author  of  it.  Don't  distress  yourself.  We  were  hustled  in  here 
indiscriminately  by  two  or  three  men,  and  if  there  is  any  one  of 
them  whose  bread  and  salt  you  would  rather  not  eat,  we  shall  for- 
bid his  paying  his  share.  Have  an  honest  care  of  your  stomach, 
Ted ;  and  leave  Alfred  Burnham  alone." 

"  I  wasn't  talking  of  Alfred  Burnham,"  I  said. 

"  No,  but  you  were  thinking  of  him  when  you  asked  that  ques- 
tion. There  is  old  Ebury,  at  the  end  of  the  table,  preaching  about 
the  benefits  to  civilization  that  the  Italian  canal,  in  which  he  is  a 
shareholder,  is  going  to  produce.  He  may  talk  about  the  Italian 
canal  till  Doomsday  ;  but  it  is  his  own  intestinal  canal  he  is  think- 
ing of." 

At  this  moment  I  overheard  Mr.  Alfred  Burnham  beginning 
to  talk  rather  loudly  about  the  fun  of  making  absolutely  absurd 
bets. 

"  Why  do  you  treat  Alfred  Burnham  so  defiantly — so  cavalier- 
ly," continued  Heatherleigh.  "  Has  he  done  you  any  injury  ? 
Why,  you  speak  to  him  as  if  he  were  a  beggar — " 

"  That  is  my  role,"  I  said,  laughing. 

"  Ah,  I  remember,"  said  Heatherleigh.  "  But  you  don't  blame 
him  for  that  ?" 

"  I  don't  blame  him  for  anything — I  dislike  him ;  and  I 
shouldn't  eat  or  drink  a  morsel  or  drop  at  this  table  if  I  thought 
he  was  going  to  pay  for  it." 

"  Be  at  rest  on  that  score,  Ted ;  Alfred  Burnham  never  pays. 
It  is  a  point  of  honor  with  him  ;  and  I  am  glad  there  is  one  thing 
on  which  he  follows  a  principle." 

Burnham  was  now  engaging  the  attention  of  the  men  nearest 
aim  by  describing  the  various  bets  he  had  seen  made.  The  run- 
ning of  rain-drops  on  panes,  the  motions  of  flies,  the  chasing  of 
waves — anything  in  which  no  possible  calculation  could  be  made 
he  preferred. 

"  For  instance,"  he  said,  getting  up  and  holding  his  table-nap- 


108  KILMENY. 

kin  in  his  hand  (although  hinch  was  not  nearly  over),  "  I  shouldn't 
mind  having  a  bet  about  the  weight  of  anything  lying  out  there — 
a  stone,  or  a  bit  of  dry  stick." 

With  that  he  looked  out  of  the  window. 

"  Are  you  good  at  guessing  right  V  asked  my  friend,  the  bar- 
rister, -whose  name  was  Tilley. 

"  I  take  my  chance,  like  everybody  else,"  said  Burnham.  "  For 
example,  I  will  bet  you  anything  you  like  that  I  will  go  nearer 
the  weight  of  that  stone  lying  out  there  than  you  will." 

"  Sit  down,  you  fellows,  and  drop  your  betting,"  said  some 
one. 

Burnham,  however,  ordered  the  waiter  to  go  out  and  fetch  in 
this  particular  stone.     He  brought  it,  and  it  was  handed  to  Til- 

"  I  don't  mind  having  a  bet  with  you,"  said  he. 

"What  shall  it  be?"  returned  Burnham,  carelessly.  "Ten, 
twenty,  fifty,  a  hundred  ?" 

"  Anything  you  like — say  fifty." 

"  All  right." 

By  this  time  everybody  at  table  was  listening. 

"  Send  it  off  to  be  weighed,"  said  Tilley,  "  and  make  the 
waiter  bring  back  the  weight  on  a  bit  of  paper.  You  and  I  must 
write  down  our  notion  of  the  weight,  and  hand  the  two  slips  to 
Hcatherleigh." 

"Very  well,"  said  Burnham,  with  a  laugh.  "I  suppose  we 
must  be  particular  when  fifty  pounds  are  in  the  case.  Or,  what 
do  you  say,  shall  we  double  ?" 

"  I  don't  mind." 

A  minute  or  two  afterwards  the  waiter  returned,  and  gave 
Ilt'athcrleigh  the  third  slip  of  paper. 

"  I  find,"  said  Heathcrleigh,  speaking  with  official  gravity, 
"  that  Bunihani  guesses  the  weight  of  this  interesting  piece  of 
stone  at  eight  ounces,  which  is  a  very  near  guess,  as  it  weighs 
seven  ounces  thirteen  drams.  But  I  find  that  Tilley  is  even 
nearer ;  for  he  ffucsses  it  at  seven  ounces  thirteen  drams.  Accord- 
ingly, he  has  won  the  bet." 

Heathcrleigh  must  have  seen  through  the  whole  affair  when 
Till(!y's  paper  was  handed  to  him  ;  but  he  made  the  announce- 
ment quite  gravely.  Tt  was  received  by  the  others  with  an  ex- 
plosion of  laughter.     Burnham  was  beside  himself  with  rage;  for 


MK.    ALFRED    BUKNHAM.  109 

not  only  had  he  lost  the  money,  but  lie  saw  that  his  neiorhbors 
perceived  he  had  been  caught  in  his  own  trap.  He  tried  to  laugh, 
and  said  to  Tilley — 

"  You  think  that  a  good  joke  ?" 

"  Well,  I  do,"  said  Tilley,  who  was  laughing  heartily. 

"  I'll  tell  you  what  I  think,"  shouted  Burnhani,  entirely  losing 
command  of  himself,  "  I  think  you  are  a  d — d  swindler." 

Tilley  was  about  to  drink  some  claret  out  of  a  tumbler.  The 
next  second  the  wine  was  thrown  into  Burnham's  face.  Then 
ensued  a  pretty  scrimmage,  two  or  three  men  holding  Burnham 
back  by  main  force,  and  everybody  begging  everybody  else  to  be 
quiet.  Tilley  stood  calm  and  collected  at  the  table.  At  length 
Burnham,  vowing  unheard-of  things,  was  persuaded  to  go  to  his 
bedroom  and  change  his  stained  waistcoat ;  while  Tilley  sat  down, 
and  asked  if  anybody  was  willing  to  cash  Mr.  Alfred  Burnham's 
note  of  hand  for  a  hundred  pounds. 

"  I  will — when  you  get  it,"  said  his  neighbor. 

Burnham  did  not  reappear ;  and  Tilley — who  made  no  secret 
of  the  way  in  which  he  had  trapped  his  opponent — finished  his 
lunch  in  peace.  From  that  day  I  noticed  that  the  men  rather 
fought  shy  of  Mr.  Alfred  Burnham.  When,  through  habit,  he 
offered  to  bet,  they  declined. 

"  Lucky  for  him  the  Lewisons  have  not  heard  of  that  prank," 
said  Heatherleigh  to  me. 

"  Wliy  ?" 

"  Because  he  would  not  be  allowed  to  visit  there,  and  it  is  only 
there  he  has  a  chance  of  meeting  your  friend,  Miss  Hester." 

"  Then  you  think—" 

*'  That  he  means  to  become  an  honest  man  so  soon  as  he  can 
marry  her  and  get  her  money  to  live  upon.  They  say  these  two 
are  engaged." 

Heatherleigh  was  silent  for  a  long  time. 

"  She  reminds  me  so  much  sometimes  of  that  girl — whom — 
whom  I  told  you  I  used  to  know.  She  has  the  same  sort  of  man- 
ner, and  her  eyes  have  the  same  strange  expression.  Sometimes 
I  look  at  her  and  think  that —  Bah  !  nonsense !  What  is  sh« 
if  she  is  capable  of  thinking  of  marrying  himj''^ 


110  KULMENV. 


CHAPTER    XII. 

AT    SHOREHAM. 

Some  local  club  or  society  having  resolved  to  hold  its  annual 
fete  at  the  Swiss  Gardens,  Shorehara,  Mr.  Lewison,  who  knew  sev- 
eral of  the  members,  was  asked  to  form  a  party  to  go  there.  Ha 
accordingly  did  so ;  and  Hoatherleigh  and  I  were  among  the  num- 
ber invited.  Some  started  from  Mr.  Lewison's  house  ;  others  drove 
over  by  themselves,  in  their  own  carriages.  Among  the  former 
were  Heatherleigh  and  myself,  and,  as  the  party  was  successively 
told  off,  it  happened  that  we  were  ordered  to  accompany  Misa 
Lesley. 

It  was  a  very  pleasant  morning,  with  a  cool  breeze  blowing  in 
from  the  sea  that  tempered  the  fierce  heat  of  the  sunlight.  Miss 
Lesley  was  looking  particularly  handsome;  and  she  was  particu- 
larly gracious.  Even  Ilcatherleigh's  coldness  seemed  to  be  thawed 
by  her  obvious  desire  to  be  pleasant  and  frioTidly ;  and  he  chat- 
ted with  her  in  a  better-tempci'cd  fashion  than  I  had  ever  seen 
him  exhibit  towards  her.  Once  or  twice,  however,  when  he  hap- 
pened to  say  something  to  me  about  painting  or  poetry,  or  some 
similar  topic,  and  when  she  joined  the  conversation,  he  turned  to 
her  with  a  polite  and  cold  attention,  which  plainly  said,  "  I  don't 
choose  to  have  you  talk  on  such  subjects." 

This  was  unfair ;  because  again  and  again  I  had  noticed  in  the 
girl  a  desire  to  apj)reciate  and  understand  these  things,  which  de- 
served every  encouragcnuMit.  I  have  already  said  that  it  seemed 
to  nic  the  artistic  side  of  her  nature  was  singularly  unimpression- 
able— that  she  seemed  incapable  of  receiving  artistic  iiiHuences; 
but  surely  it  was  all  the  more  creditable  to  her  that  she  should 
be  anxious  to  be  able  to  take  an  interest  in  such  matters.  Even 
to  assume  the  interest  she  did  not  feel  was  in  itself  a  virtue. 
Most  women  in  her  position  would  have  used  the  prerogative 
given  them  by  their  surpassing  loveliness  to  despise  what  they 
could  not  comprehend,  and  banish  any  mention  of  it  from  their 
circle.     T<j  hold  in  subjection  a  court  of  lovers,  to  look  like  some 


AT    SHOREHAM.  Ill 

glorified  Cleopatra,  would  liave  been  sufficient  for  them ;  and  they 
would  have  laughed  at  and  scouted  the  intellectual  cravings  which 
they  could  not  understand,  even  as  modern  interpretation  will 
have  it  that  the  object  of  Pygmalion's  love  outraged  and  disap' 
pointed  the  passionate  longings  of  her  creator. 

When  we  reached  Shoreham,  we  found  that  a  number  of  peo- 
ple had  arrived,  and  had  already  become  familiar  with  what  must 
have  been  to  them  the  very  novel  amusements  of  the  gardens. 
Here  some  young  girls  in  gauzy  white,  with  red  roses  in  their 
hair  and  pink  gloves  on  their  hands,  were  practising  archery  in  a 
reckless  fashion,  and  getting  extraordinary  compliments  from  one 
or  two  gentlemen  who  were  their  attendants  whenever  chance 
brought  a  stray  arrow  near  the  target.  There  a  party  was  play- 
ing at  croquet,  and  exhibiting  to  bystanders  a  much  greater  skill 
in  the  fine  art  of  fiirtation  than  in  sending  a  ball  through  the  bell. 
Then  there  were  the  quiet  walks  through  snatches  of  copsewood 
(with  some  painted  pasteboard  figure  suddenly  staring  at  you 
from  among  the  bushes),  the  greenhouses,  the  flower-gardens,  the 
lake,  and  what  not,  to  attract  straggling  couples.  I  do  not  mean 
here  to  describe  the  various  amusements  that  occupied  us  during 
the  day — a  picnic  on  the  lawn  being  prominent  among  them  ;  nor 
yet  the  performance  at  the  theatre,  where  Miss  Lesley  sat  in  the 
front  of  the  gallery,  and  endeavored  to  keep  her  numerous  gen- 
tlemen friends  from  talking  to  her  while  the  actors  were  on  the 
stage.  As  the  people  were  going  out,  we  happened  to  get  to- 
gether; and,  as  chance  would  have  it,  we  carelessly  strolled  on- 
wards until  we  found  ourselves  in  that  straggling  line  of  wood 
which  surrounds  the  lake. 

Here  we  walked  up  and  down  in  the  cool  of  the  beautiful  even- 
ing, all  around  us  the  flutter  of  green  leaves  and  the  stirring  of 
the  sweet  pure  air ;  and  then,  when  we  came  to  a  gap  in  the  trees, 
we  found  a  pale  yellow  sky  overhead,  sharply  traced  across  with 
lines  of  cirrus  clouds,  gleaming  like  silver  on  the  faint  back- 
ground of  gold  mist.  The  young  moon  was  there,  too ;  and 
Bonnie  Lesley  turned  over  all  the  money  in  her  pocket,  for  luck's 
sake. 

"  You  artists  don't  care  to  be  rich,"  she  said.  "  You  have  a 
world  of  your  own,  and  you  are  rich  in  dreams,  and  you  don't 
care  about  us  poor  folks  out  here,  or  what  we  think  is  pleasant  to 
have." 


112  KILMENV. 

"  I  know  what  is  pleasant  to  have,"  I  said.  "  I  wish  I  was 
rich  and  beautiful  and  strong  and  liajtpy,  not  for  my  own  sake, 
but  to  have  the  power  of  conferiing  favor  and  pleasure.  I  see 
men  and  women  here  who  have  only  to  smile  to  confer  a  favor: 
you,  yourself — you  know  what  pleasure  it  must  give  you  to  be 
beautiful  and  bountiful  and  lovable — to  be  able  to  gladden  tlie 
people  around  you  with  a  look  or  a  word." 

"Do  you  know  what  you  are  saying?"  she  said,  with  a  laugh 
of  surprise. 

It  seemed  to  nie  that  I  did  not.  I  was  so  anxious  to  show  her 
wliat  I  considered  the  happy  position  of  rich  and  beautiful  per- 
sons that  I  had  taken  no  care  to  conceal  what  I  thought  of  her- 
self personally.     This  1  told  her  frankly. 

"  You  think  it  is  a  fine  thing  to  be  good-looking  and  all  this 
that  you  say  ?  What  if  you  can't  please  the  very  jjcople  you 
want  to  please  ?  Why,  if  I  were  to  believe  the  nonsense  you 
talked,  I  should  be  able  at  once  to  overwhelm  you  with  kindness." 

"You  do  that  now,"  I  said,  truthfully  enough. 

"Is  what  you  say  true?"  she  said,  turning  lier  large  eyes,  full 
of  a  pretty  astonishment,  upon  me.  "  Is  it  really  of  any  concern 
to  you  that  I  should  do  everything  in  my  power  to  please  you? 
If  I  told  you  now  that — that  there  was  nothing  I  wouldn't  do — " 

With  that  she  laughed  lightly. 

"  Come,"  she  said,  "  we  are  drifting  into  confessions,  and  there 
are  sure  to  be  people  walking  around  this  way,  who  would  imag- 
ine—" 

And  Iierc  she  lauglied  again,  and  turned  away  from  me,  and 
tripped  down  the  bank  to  the  margin  of  the  lake.  Before  I  knew 
what  she  was  about,  she  had  jumped  into  a  boat,  and,  lifting  one 
of  the  oars,  had  pushed  out  from  the  bank. 

"  II(nv  far  would  you  jumj)  in  order  to  have  the  pleasure  of 
coming  and  talking  to  me?"  she  said. 

"  Let  the  boat  stop  where  it  is,  and  1  will  jiinij)  from  the 
bridge." 

"You  silly  boy,  you  would  break  your  neck.  See,  I  will  be 
merciful,  and  you  shall  l)reak  your  neck  for  me  another  time." 

"  When  I  can  be  of  service  to  you." 

"  Just  so." 

Slie  jtushed  tlie  stern  of  tlir  l>u;it  towards  the  shore;  1  got  in 
and  took  the  oars.     We  paddlid  .liioiit  a  little — passed  under  the 


AT    SHOREHAM.  113 

bridge  and  out  upon  the  larger  lake,  which  was  now  growing 
crirason  under  the  evening  sky.  Out  in  the  middle  of  the  water 
we  allowed  the  boat  to  float  idly,  and  Bonnie  Lesley  bade  me 
come  and  sit  beside  her  that  she  might  talk  to  me. 

"  Whatever  put  that  strange  notion  into  your  head  about  wish- 
ing to  be  rich  and  so  forth,  in  order  to  be  able  to  please  people  ? 
The  only  use  in  riches  I  see  is  that  they  make  you  independent. 
For  instance,  if  I  had  no  money,  I  should  have  to  marry  a  man 
who  could  keep  up  a  house  in  a  certain  style ;  but  I  shall  have  a 
little  money,  you  know,  when  I  come  of  age,  and  I  can  look  all 
around  my  friends  and  say  to  myself.  Well,  there  are  one  or  two 
who,  I  think,  would  like  to  marry  me,  but  I  shall  wait  until  I  get 
desperately  fond  of  some  one,  and  then,  if  he  is  as  fond  of  me,  I 
can  marry  him,  even  although  he  is  a  beggar.  Now  that  is  for- 
tunate." 

"  It  would  be,  for  the  beggar." 

"  Why  not  for  me  ?  Surely  you  have  a  better  opinion  of  me 
than  to  think  that  I  h;  ve  any  sympathy  with  the  common  no- 
tions about  marriage  ?  Oh,  I  am  more  romantic  than  you  imag- 
ine, and  if  you  would  only  try  me,  I  mean  if  you  would  not  mis- 
understand me.  I  might —  But  no  matter.  Do  you  remember 
what  Queen  Elizabeth  wrote  in  reply  to  Sir  Walter  Raleigh's 
lines  about  his  feaiing  to  rise  so  far  lest  he  might  fall  ?  She  was 
right,  too,  was  she  not?  Isn't  it  the  business  of  men  to  dare,  and 
of  women  to  give  ?"  She  uttered  these  last  words  in  a  low  voice, 
with  her  head  bent  down. 

Inadvertently  I  took  her  hand  in  mine,  and  she  did  not  with- 
draw it. 

The  boat,  meanwhile,  had  drifted  back  almost  to  the  bridge, 
and,  at  this  moment,  I  looked  up  and  saw  Hester  Burnham  stand- 
ing there  alone.     Her  eyes  met  mine. 

Did  I  ever  tell  you  what  those  eyes  were  like — the  large,  dark 
pupils,  set  in  the  tender-blue  gray,  and  shaded  by  long  eyelashes 
— eyes  full  of  a  strange,  intense  life,  that  was  yet  tempered  by 
the  calm,  wise,  kind  expression  of  them  ? 

I  met  that  earnest  look  for  a  moment,  and  I  withdrew  my 
hand  from  Bonnie  Lesley's  fingers.  I  knew  that  between  me  and 
her,  between  me  and  any  possibility  of  such  hope  and  happiness 
as  I  had  dared  to  think  she  suggested,  there  lay  something  as 
wide  and  as  sad  as  the  sea. 


114 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

BURNHAM  PARK. 

I  WAS  called  from  Brighton  to  see  my  Uncle  Job,  who  was 
thought  to  be  dying.  It  was  at  his  urgent  request  that  I  set  off 
immediately  after  getting  the  letter;  and  on  the  evening  of  the 
following  day  I  was  approaching  the  well-known  valley  down  in 
the  heart  of  Bucks. 

How  different  the  place  looked  now !  The  tields  and  meadows 
were  laden  with  the  bountiful  summer  produce;  and  the  great 
beech-woods  that  lay  along  the  successive  lulls  were  smothered  in 
thick  leafage.  I  entered  these  woods  as  the  pheasants  were  get- 
ting to  roost,  and  as  the  wide  plain  that  stretched  over  to  Oxford- 
shire was  beginning  to  fade  into  a  blue  mist.  Just  above  the 
horizon,  however,  lay  a  splendid  sunset — the  sun  himself  being 
down,  and  the  clouds  above  gathering  into  a  large,  luminous  fan- 
shell  of  gold.  Along  the  horizon  lay  a  swathe  of  dark  purple, 
broken  by  one  gleaming  line  of  blood-red,  forming,  as  it  were,  the 
base  of  the  great  shell ;  and  then  above  that  came  the  circled 
lines  of  gold,  clying  into  a  faint  green  overhead.  By  the  time  I 
reached  my  uncle's  up-lying  farm  these  lines  had  changed  into 
a  dull  crimson,  and  the  wooded  western  country  was  growing 
dark. 

When  I  went  inside,  my  mother  and  father  were  with  my  uncle. 
At  his  desire,  they  left  the  room,  that  I  might  go  in  and  see  old 
Job  Ives  alone.  My  mother  kissed  me  as  usual ;  but  I  noticed 
that  my  father  shook  hands  with  me  ceremoniously,  and  strove 
to  be  formal  and  polite.  Could  the  man's  reverence  for  my  moth- 
er go  further  than  that?  lie  looked  upon  me  as  a  gentleman, 
because  I  was  her  son,  and  ho  seemed  to  think  it  his  duty  to  her 
that  he  should  be  respectful  towards  me.  I  scarcely  dared  quar- 
rel with  this  feeling  (absurd  as  it  was  in  its  demonstrations  to- 
wards myself),  for  I  recognized  the  great  love  and  affection  from 
which  it  sprang.      If  my  mother's  marriage  was  a  menalliance,  it 


BURNHAM    PARK.  115 

was  the  happiest  ever  made  in  the  world ;'  and  I  know  two  people 
at  least,  who  never  regretted  it. 

My  Uncle  Job  was  down  with  fever,  and  a  very  ghastly  spectacle 
he  presented — his  grizzly  beard,  his  pale  face,  and  cropped  hair. 

"  Shot  the  dower,  Ted,"  said  he. 

I  shut  it. 

"  Are  we  all  aloan  ?" 

"  Yes." 

*'  I  suppose  I  be  goin'  to  die  ?" 

"  I  hope  not.  Uncle  Job,"  I  said. 

"  Now,  Ted,"  he  said,  rather  querulously,  but  in  a  low,  gasping 
voice,  "  I  have  always  'ad  a  great  respect  for  you  as  boy  and 
niahn ;  you've  always  bin  so  fair  and  honest ;  and  doan't  you  be 
goin'  now  to  talk  that  darned  nonsense  about  a  man  bein'  afeard 
to  die,  and  thinkin'  what's  a  comin'  to  'im.  I  tell  ye,  Ted,  as  you 
get  so  infernal  weak  and  listless  that  ye  doan't  care  whether  ye 
die  or  no ;  and  if  I  be  agoin'  to  die,  I'm  darned  if  I  care.  I  want 
none  o'  your  pahrsons  to  frighten  me  wi'  ghost-stories,  as  if  I  wur 
a  babby ;  and  I  want  no  'umbug  on  my  tombstone,  if  they  gie 
me  one.  The  tombstones  be  nice  things,  hain't  they  ? — saayin' 
as  how  folks  are  grieved  'cause  their  friends  are  gone  to  hever- 
lastin'  'appiness !  It  makes  me  think,  when  I  see  their  grief  is 
honest,  that  they  are  either  darned  jealous  o'  their  friends  gettin' 
the  'appiness  first,  or  that  they're  not  so  sure  about  it  as  they 
pretend.  And  if  ye  look  around,  Ted,  at  the  haverage  goin's-on 
o'  people,  it's  no  wonder  folks  should  ha'  some  doubt  about  every- 
body goin'  to  'eaven.  What  I  says  is,  I've  done  my  duty  by 
the  fahmi  and  by  my  relations,  and  I  hain't  afeard  o'  nothin'. 
Though  I  do  hope  them  wuts  '11  turn  out  right." 

Here  ray  mother  entered  to  give  Job  his  periodical  dose  of 
quinine,  or  some  such  medicine.  He  muttered  a  word  or  two 
about  his  wishing  to  be  let  die  in  peace ;  but  he  took  the  medi- 
cine, and  only  cursed  once  and  feebly  about  the  taste  of  it.  So 
soon  as  my  mother  was  gone,  he  recommenced  his  chance  ob- 
servations on  his  having  done  his  duty,  a  point  he  insisted  on. 
Whence  Uncle  Job  had  borrowed  his  notions  of  duty  was  a  puz- 
zle. He  recognized  no  authority  beyond  his  own  idea  of  what 
he  ought  to  have  done,  and  he  looked  for  no  recompense.  He 
had  done  his  duty,  and  he  knew  it,  and  wished  to  be  let  alone  by 
parsons. 


116  KILMKNY. 

"  Sure  we  be  aloan,  Ted?"  he  murmured. 

"  Yes." 

"  D'ye  know  why  I  sent  for  ye  ?" 

"  No." 

"  It  was  to  tell  ye  somethin'  I  never  told  to  them.  I  didn't 
want  to  have  the  pahrson  a-botherin'  about  me,  and  all  the  darned 
idiots  in  the  place  talkiu'  lies  about  my  convarsion  ;  but  I  wanted 
you  to  come,  for  I'd  something  to  tell  ye,  and  I  bain't  so  weak  as 
not  to  be  able  to — " 

Here  Uncle  Job  ceased,  and  lay  still  for  some  seconds.  His 
eyes  were  half  shut,  and  he  seemed  to  be  thinking  about  some- 
thing. What  was  the  confession  which  this  old  heathen  was  about 
to  make  ?  The  villagers  would  have  believed  any  evil  of  Job 
Ives ;  for  they  knew  that  he  said  bitter  things  about  parsons,  and 
sneered  at  their  church-going,  and  walked  about  on  Sunday  morn- 
ing in  his  oldest  clothes,  with  a  clay  pipe  in  his  mouth.  Not  the 
old  Major  himself,  who  had  refused  to  be  buried  in  consecrated 
ground,  would  have  been  so  readily  accredited  with  evil  doings. 
Indeed,  more  or  less  vaguely,  they  suspected  Job  Ives  to  be  ca- 
pable of  any  crime — except  one.  Even  in  Great  Missenden  I 
scarcely  believe  there  was  a  man  who  would  have  dared  to  say 
that  my  uncle  was  secretly  a  Roman  Catholic. 

"  That  darned  doctor,"  he  said,  "  makes  believe  as  he  knows 
what's  the  iiialitter  wi'  me ;  but  he  knows  no  more  nor  I  know. 
It's  their  business  to  make  believe.  I  remember  as  there  was  a 
feller — a  professor  he  called  hisself — came  down  to  Missenden 
to  explain  things  to  us  poor  hidiots  in  the  country,  and  he  gave 
a  lecture.  D'ye  know  what  he  wanted  us  to  believe? — why,  that 
the  water  as  rises  in  a  pump  is  made  to  rise  by  the  pressure  of 
the  air.  Darn  his  eyes ! — does  the  air  press  on  my  hand  now  ? 
But  you  see,  Ted,  they've  to  explain  it  somehow,  them  professors ; 
and  one  reason's  as  good's  another." 

Here  the  old  ])agan's  ghastly  face  grinned,  as  if  to  say  that  Job 
Ives,  even  on  his  ileath-bed,  was  a  match  for  any  number  of  learn- 
ed impostors. 

"  But  you  were  going  to  tell  me  something,'*  I  suggested. 

I  knew  I  was  no  great  hand  at  administering  spiritual  consola- 
tion ;  but  if  the  old  man  had  something  to  confess,  or  had  even 
some  religious  dithcidty  to  propound,  I  was  anxious  to  make  his 
last  hours  as  peaceful  as  possible. 


BURNHAM    PARK. 


IIY 


"  Ay,  ay,  I  doan't  forget,"  he  said,  slowly,  "  Take  out  your 
pencil,  and  write  down  the  name  of  Stephen  Catlin." 

He  added  a  frightful  oath  as  he  uttered  the  name.  It  was  no 
doctrinal  point,  clearly,  on  which  he  wished  to  have  his  doubts 
resolved. 

I  did  as  he  bade  me. 

"  Ted,  that  man  Stephen  Catlin  wur  my  friend,  and  he  ruined 
the  girl  as  I  wanted  to  marry." 

A  complete  transformation  had  suddenly  come  over  the  old 
man.  As  he  uttered  the  words,  he  struggled  to  raise  himself 
on  the  bed,  his  face  became  whiter  than  ever,  and  his  eyes  actu- 
ally gleamed  with  passion.  His  voice,  too,  that  seemed  to  come 
from  the  grave,  was  shrill  and  harsh,  and  his  whole  frame  trem- 
bled. 

"  I  say  as  he  took  her  awaay  from  me,  when  we  wur  livin'  in 
Datchet,  and  she  over  in  Windsor.  She  wur  to  have  married  me, 
Ted,  and  I  caught  them  walkin'  together  one  night,  and  we  had 
a  fight — and,  thank  God  !  thank  God  !  I  felled  him  down,  Ted — 
I  felled  him  down — and  he  laid  at  her  feet,  and  never  spoke  a 
word — " 

He  laughed,  and  the  laugh  had  a  hollow  sound  as  it  died  down 
in  his  throat. 

"  I  didn't  knoaw  then,"  he  continued,  sinking  back  on  the  pil- 
low, "  as  he  didn't  mean  fairly  by  her,  or  I  should  ha'  killed  him 
thear.  It  wur  a  bad  day  for  her  when  she  met  him.  She  and  I 
were  very  comfortable  then — we  used  to  walk  along  the  banks  o' 
the  river  in  the  evenin's,  or  under  the  trees  in  Windsor  Park ; 
and  she  wur  a  sweet,  pure  thing,  Ted,  as  ever  stepped,  wi'  a  fine, 
plump  cheek,  and  a  pretty,  soft  eye.  But  I  think  she  wur  afeard 
o'  me,  for  I  never  went  to  church  wi'  her  on  the  Sundays ;  and  he 
— that's  how  he  got  acquaint  wi'  her.  It's  a  pretty  likin'  I've 
had  for  churches,  chapels,  and  pahrsons  since  then.  Howsever, 
when  the  worst  came  to  the  worst,  and  the  poor  lass  had  to  go 
to  London  for  shame  o'  people  talkin'  of  her,  he  packs  his  traps 
and  cuts  for  Australia.  Would  you  believe  it,  Ted  ?  And  every 
one  on  us  expectin'  him  to  marry  her.  But  I  could  go  to  hell, 
Ted,  if  only  to  see  him  thedr^ 

He  rested  himself  awhile,  for  the  terrible  excitement  under 
which  he  had  been  laboring  had  made  him  gasp  for  breath. 

"  You're  younger  than  us  about  here,  Ted.     You'll  live  to  come 


118  KILMENY. 

across  them  two — stay,  put  down  her  name,  Katie  Dormer — she's 
in  London,  and  the  last  I  heard  of  her  was  that  she  wur  in  ser- 
vice.    She's,  mayhap,  gray-haired  now." 

I  was  about  to  write  down  her  name,  when  lie  said,  angrily — 

"  No,  not  on  the  same  bit  o'  paper — on  another  bit  o'  paper ; 
d— n  him  !" 

This  I  did. 

"  Fve  made  a  wOl,  Ted,  and  there's  fifty  pounds  for  Katie  Dor- 
mer. You'll  advertise  for  her ;  and  you'll  tell  her,  when  you  find 
her,  as  it's  from  old  Job  Ives." 

"  If  she's  alive,  and  in  London,  I'll  find  her  out,"  I  said. 

My  uncle  stretched  out  his  lean,  hmry  arm,  and  feebly  shook 
my  hand. 

"  As  for  him,"  he  said,  with  that  fierce  light  again  coming  into 
his  eyes,  "  if  ever  he  come  back  to  England,  and  if  you  meet  him, 
Ted,  kill  him,  my  brave  lad,  kill  him  dead !  If  you  had  a  sister, 
wouldn't  you  kill  the  mahn  as  ruined  her?  And  Katie  Dormer 
was  fit  to  have  been  the  sister  of — of — " 

He  lay  back  with  a  sigh. 

"  Open  the  dower,  and  tell  my  brother  and  his  wife  to  come 
in,"  he  said,  in  a  little  time. 

I  called  them  in. 

*'  I  feel  wonderful  better,"  he  said,  with  a  grin  on  the  haggard, 
unshaven  face  —  "I  feel  wonderful  better.  I  hain't  dead  yet, 
Tom ;  and  mayhap  I'll  cheat  ye  all.  Howsever  I  want  to  tell  ye 
as  I've  made  a  will,  and  in  case  them  darned  lawyers  make  believe 
as  they've  found  a  mare's  nest  in  it,  I'll  tell  ye  what  I  mean  by 
it,  and  you'll  all  three  stick  to  it." 

"  Never  mind  about  the  will,  Job,"  said  my  mother.  "  Lie 
still,  and  get  better,  and  then  we'll  talk  about  it." 

"  Do  ye  wahnt  me  to  come  back  as  a  ghost  to  talk  about  it, 
do  ye  ?  Happen  as  ghosts  doan't  talk  anythin'  so  sensible  when 
they  come  back — they  talk  darned  nonsense  to  old  women,  and 
raise  pianners  !  Fancy  old  Job  Ives  playin'  on  the  pianner — what 
darned  queer  tunes  my  ghost  '11  make  if  they  bother  me !" 

"  Oh,  Job,  don't  talk  like  that !"  said  my  mother,  almost  fright- 
ened. 

But  there  was  a  ghastly  grin  on  old  Job's  haggard  face,  and  he 
said — 

"  Ain't  it  'ard  as  I'll  have  to  wear  one  suit  o'  clothes  forevcf 


BURNHAM    PARK.  119 

in  the  next  world — them  old  things  as  is  hanging  up  there — and 
in  a  year  or  two's  time  I'll  be  out  o'  the  fahshion.  And  the  peo- 
ple '11  say,  when  I  begin  on  the  accordion,  '  Poor  old  Job  Ives,  'e 
never  could  wear  good  clothes  even  when  he  wur  alive,  and  now 
he's  a  reg'lar  guy.'  " 

"Job,  have  you  nothing  else  to  think  about?"  said  my  mother, 
urgently,  who  was  horrified  to  see  her  relative  dying  in  this  un- 
godly mood. 

"  Yes,  I  have,"  said  he.  "  Brother,  I've  left  you  and  your  wife 
all  the  stock  on  the  fahrm.  I  hope  you'll  take  the  fahrm,  and  do 
your  duty  by  it,  as  I've  done.  If  them  wuts  in  the  ten-acre  ud 
only  get  some  rain,  you'll  ha'  a  good  crop  this  year  to  start  wi' ; 
and  I  hope  you  and  your  wife  '11  live  comfortable.  If  I'd  ha' 
married  a  woman  like  you,  Susan,  I'd  ha'  lived  a  different  life 
mayhap ;  but  I've  done  my  duty,  as  I  say,  and  no  one  '11  deny  it. 
Brother,  don't  you  forget  old  Betsy  Kinch  ;  she  wur  a  good  friend 
to  our  father,  and  she'll  look  to  you  when  quarter-day  comes 
round.  And  you'll  be  able  to  afford  her,  besides,  a  trifle  o'  taters, 
or  butter,  or  the  like — " 

My  father  took  Uncle  Job's  hand,  and  pressed  it. 

"  You're  a  good  man.  Job,  and  you've  been  a  kind-hearted  man 
since  you  wur  a  boy." 

"  As  for  Ted,"  said  my  uncle,  "  I've  a  matter  o'  eighteen  'un- 
dred  pounds  in  the  bank,  and  I've  left  it  to  'im.  You  won't  think 
that  'ard  on  you,  Tom  ?  You  know,  he's  no'  like  us.  Look  at 
him—" 

"  I  know,  I  know,"  said  my  father.  "  It's  him  as  has  to  com- 
plain o'  me ;  I  should  ha'  started  him  in  life ;  but  how  could  I  ?" 

"  Why,  father,  you  gave  me  a  good  education :  what  more 
does  any  one  want  than  that  ?" 

"  Your  mother  did,"  said  he. 

"  Make  a  good  use  o'  the  money,  Ted,"  continued  my  uncle. 
"  It  isn't  much ;  but  it's  a  good  nest-egg ;  and  you  may  make 
us  all  proud  o'  ye  yet.    D — n  it,  I'm  a-talkin'  as  if  I  wurn't  dyin'." 

"  And  neither  are  you,"  I  said ;  "  if  you  would  only  keep  still 
and  quiet,  you'd  get  all  right  again." 

With  that  he  turned  away  his  face  from  us,  and  lay  perfectly 
silent.  My  father  and  I  slipped  out  of  the  room,  leaving  my 
mother  by  the  bedside. 

"  What  a  wonderful  energy  there  is  in  him !"  I  said  to  my 


120  KILMENY. 

tatlier.  "  His  system  is  at  its  very  lowest,  and  yet  you  lieai  how 
he  talks." 

"Ay,  there's  fire  there,"  said  my  father,  sitting  down  in  a 
great  wooden  chair  in  the  kitchen — "  there's  fire  in  him  yet ;  and 
I  shouldn't  wonder  if  he'd  cheat  the  doctor.  If  he  does,  he  has 
to  thank  your  mother,  Ted.  She  has  watched  him  and  tended 
him  as  if  it  wur  you." 

My  father  seemed  to  be  struck  by  the  notion  that  my  mother 
should  care  so  much  for  one  of  his  family. 

"There's  a  good  woman,  Ted,"  he  said,  thoughtfully;  it's  but 
a  hard  life  she  has  had  of  it." 

"  Why  do  you  say  that  ?"  I  remonstrated.  "  Did  you  ever  see 
a  woman  more  contented  ?" 

"  But  she  was  brought  up  to  expect  mower,"  he  said,  shaking 
his  head.  "  She  might  have  been  a  gentleman's  wife,  Ted,  riding 
in  her  own  carriage.     What  is  she — " 

"  Happy,"  I  said,  looking  him  boldly  in  the  face, 

"  She  deserves  to  be,"  he  said,  rising  suddenly,  and  beginning 
to  walk  up  and  down  the  wooden  floor. 

Then  he  said  by  and  by — 

"  Was  it  about  Katie  Dormer  he  wanted  to  sec  you,  Ted  ?" 

"  Yes,"  I  answered,  with  some  surprise  ;  for  Job  had  said  it  was 
a  secret. 

"  I  thought  so,"  said  my  father  ;  "  T  thonght  so.  Your  mother 
would  have  it  as  he  was  wantin'  somebody  to  talk  to  him  about 
religion,  and  didn't  like  to  ask  us  about  here,  lest  we  should  speak 
about  it  to  the  neighbors.  But  I  thought  it  was  Katie  Dormer 
he  wanted  to  talk  about.     So  he  told  you  the  whole  story  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Ah,  he  was  never  the  same  man  after  that  happened.  It 
turned  his  life  round  and  round  for  him,  and  he  got  sour  and 
cantankerous,  and  bitter  in  his  speech  wi'  the  people  about.  But 
lie  wur  a  good  man  for  all  that — I  wish  there  wur  more  like 
him." 

"  And  the  man—?" 

"Catlin?  I  heard  as  lie  liad  come  back  a  rich  man,  and  had 
started  as  a  buildiT  in  Iliglibury  sdiiirw  lici'c,  with  a  wagonette 
and  a  pair  o'  horses,  and  the  like.  It  wur  well  for  him  as  he  got 
olT  for  Australia  afore  my  brother  Job  laid  bands  on  him." 

Ilcrr  one  of  the  servants  came  in  foi  a  minute  or  so,  and  inter 


BURNHAM    PARK.  121 

rupted  our  conversation.  When  she  had  left,  Tiiy  father  con- 
tinued— 

"So  Job  is  still  thinkin'  o'  that  girl.  I  dunnow  if  he's  done 
aught  but  think  of  her  these  twenty -five  yurs  and  more.  But 
what  d'ye  say,  Ted,  to  get  your  mother  to  go  home  ?  She  wun't 
go  home  for  me,  and  she'll  make  herself  bad  by  sittin'  up  night 
after  night.  You  take  her  home,  and  I'll  wait  here  to-night.  In 
the  mornin'  she  can  come  over  again  from  Burnham," 

I  was  going  into  the  room,  when  he  said — 

"  Mind  you  don't  tell  him  as  you  heard  me  speak  o'  Catlin — 
for  he  doesn't  know  as  he's  back  in  London." 

"  All  right,"  I  said. 

I  went  into  the  room  gently,  that  I  might  not  disturb  my 
uncle.  He  was  not  asleep,  however ;  and  so  soon  as  he  saw  me 
he  signified  that  I  was  to  sit  down  by  his  side. 

"  You  woan't  forget  about  them  two  ?"  he  said,  in  a  faint 
whisper. 

"  No,"  I  said. 

"  Fifty  pounds  for  her ;  death,  and  hell  afterwards,  for  him  ! 
If  I  could  only  see  liim  drownin',  Ted,  from  the  side  of  a  river, 
me  with  a  rope,  him  lookin'  at  me !" 

A  wicked  laugh  came  over  the  gaunt,  gray  face ;  and  then  my 
uncle  seemed  to  recover  his  spirits,  and  said  aloud — 

"  I  bain't  agoin'  to  die,  Ted  ;  I  be  goin'  to  live,  so  as  you  may 
paint  my  pictur.  Then  you'll  put  a  date  on  it,  and  people  '11 
know  as  I  was  in  the  fashion.  What  your  mother  wun't  believe, 
Ted,  is  this — that  folks  have  to  wear  in  the  next  world  what  they 
wore  in  this — or  how  could  you  recognize  their  ghosts  ?" 

"  Job,  pray  don't  talk  any  more  about  that !"  entreated  my 
mother,  who  was  evidently  being  "talked  at"  by  her  hardened 
brother-in-law. 

"  What  I  says  is,  as  it's  'ard  they  should  make  me  walk  about 
the  next  world  wi'  my  old  green  shootin' -  coat  and  corduroy 
breeches,  and  never  gie  me  a  chance  o'  changin'  the  cut — " 

"  You've  told  me  all  that  before,"  she  said,  "  and  you  are  only 
harming  yourself  by  talking." 

"  You  want  me  to  say  as  I'm  darned  sorry  for  my  life,  and  as 
I  beg  the  pahrson  to  forgive  me  for  not  goin'  to  church,"  he  said, 
with  a  sneer.  "I'm  none  o'  your  sweet -tongued  sort,  Susan. 
You'll  teach  old  Job  Ives  to  sing  hallelujahs  when  you  teach  a  jay 


122  KILMENY. 

to  talk  French.  Pabrsons  !  bah  !  Tell  ye  what,  Ted,  if  ye  kep' 
a  lot  o'  pahrsons  in  a  greenhouse,  and  manured  'cm  and  let  'em 
develop,  they'd  grow  into  mealy-mouthed  women." 

"  And  what  would  the  women  grow  into.  Uncle  Job  ?" 

"  Why,  wi'  plenty  o'  heat  and  damp,  you'd  see  'em  beginnin'  to 
sprout  claws,  and  meyow,  like  cats.  That's  what  all  women  would 
do,  except  one,  Ted — Acr." 

And  he  looked  at  my  mother. 

But  nothing  would  persuade  her  to  go  home  this  evening,  al- 
though it  seemed  clear  to  all  of  us,  the  doctor  included,  that  Uncle 
Job  was  gaining  ground.  And  as  the  doctor  had  promised  to 
sleep  at  the  farm-house  that  night,  after  seeing  another  of  his 
patients,  there  was  no  room  for  me,  and  so  I  set  off  to  walk  over 
to  Burnham,  with  a  promise  to  return  in  the  morning. 

Somehow  the  reckless  talk  and  manner  of  my  uncle  had  given 
me  the  impression  that  he  was  not  so  dangerously  ill  as  the}'  had 
imagined.  Could  a  man  die  whose  whole  energy  was  bent  upon 
gibing  at  parsons,  thinking  over  an  old  love-story,  and  making 
jokes  about  his  prospects  in  the  next  world  ?  When  I  got  out 
into  the  clear  night-air,  it  seemed  as  if  I  had  come  down  into 
Buckinghamshire  on  a  pleasant  excursion,  and  that  I  ought  to  en- 
joy the  opportunity. 

Shall  I  confess  here — since  this  is  a  book  of  confessions — that 
the  gay  life  which  had  for  a  little  while  fascinated  nic  at  Brighton 
had  begun  to  grow,  to  me,  dull,  heartless,  and  hopeless  ?  It  even 
destroyed  the  keen  pleasure  I  felt  in  being  near  the  sea.  It  was 
only  at  times  that  there  wandered  into  that  atmosphere  that  was 
.sickly  with  the  scent  of  wines  and  of  ladies'  finery  a  reminiscenco 
of  the  far-off  waves ;  and  that  vague  suggestion  stirred  pulses  that 
had  grown  ai)atlietic.  I  began  to  long  even  for  London,  and  the 
delight  of  labor,  and  the  hopefulness  and  satisfaction  of  well-spent 
time.  If  I  went  down  to  Brighton  again,  I  resolved  to  take  my 
picture  thither,  and  work  at  it,  so  that  I  should  have  some  right 
to  enjoy  a  chance  hour  of  rest  by  the  shore,  out  of  sight  of  peo- 
ple, alone  by  the  sea. 

As  I  walked  along  the  dark  road,  recognizing  this  wood  or 
cirmp  of  trees  or  house  that  had  been  familiar  to  me  in  the  old 
time,  I  became  glad  that  the  fashionable  life  with  which  T  had  no 
sort  of  syjnpatliy  wa-<  wholly  cut  off  and  separated  from  inc.  I 
was  free  t<'  dnain  and  dress  and  bend  my  steps  just  as  I  pleased. 


BUENHAM    PARK.  123 

Even  Bonnie  Lesley  seemed  now  something  distant ;  and  when  I 
tried  to  call  up  her  features,  and  paint  them  on  the  dark  back- 
ground of  the  gloom  in  front  of  me,  I  could  only  summon  up  a 
vague  shape,  that  scarcely  awakened  interest.  But  then  I  thought 
of  her  low  and  tender  words  on  that  evening  at  Shoreham ;  and 
my  heart  beat  rapidly. 

It  was  a  lovely  night.  There  was  no  moon  visible,  for  it  lay 
down  in  the  south  behind  a  great  thin  veil  of  cloud  that  stretched 
up  and  over  the  sky  in  successive  cirrus  lines.  Singularly  enough, 
these  fleecy  stretches  of  cloud  were  so  transparent  that  you  could 
see  there  was  moonlight  lying  on  the  other  side — a  sea  of  light 
rippling  in  upon  a  breadth  of  ribbed  and  gleaming  silver  sand. 
But  where  the  clouds  grew  still  thinner,  up  in  the  north,  they  lay 
in  long  streaks  across  the  deep  blue,  like  the  white  hair  of  some 
Scandinavian  god,  blown  by  the  polar  winds.  The  rest  of  the 
sky  was  dark  and  still ;  and  there  was  not  sufficient  moonlight 
falling  through  the  curdled  clouds  to  lighten  up  the  landscape ; 
so  that  the  strangest  effect  was  produced  by  those  auroral-looking 
gleams  of  tremulous  white  fire  that  stretched  across  the  dark  vault 
overhead. 

Very  dark,  too,  were  the  avenues  of  tall  Spanish  chestnuts  that 
led  up  to  Burnham  House ;  but  nearer  the  House,  the  open  park 
grew  lighter,  and  at  times  the  moonlight  threw  a  slight  shadow 
from  the  old  and  rounded  oaks.  There  was  a  faint  mist  hovering 
about  the  foot  of  these  trees  that  made  the  various  objects  around 
wear  a  spectral  look.  It  was  a  long  time  since  I  had  seen  Burn- 
ham  House ;  and  now  the  gray  front  of  it  seemed  strangely  beauti- 
ful. In  my  early  days  the  place  had  been  associated  with  errands, 
and  birthday  presents,  and  what  not,  that  gave  it  a  wholly  modern 
and  prosaic  character ;  but  now  it  looked  legendary  and  old  and 
picturesque.  Fancy  this  ancient  house,  in  which  the  leaders  of 
the  Commonwealth,  sitting  deep  into  the  night,  with  their  leath- 
ern doublets  and  top-boots  still  on  them,  had  planned  their  daring 
schemes  and  written  out  their  despatches — the  stately  and  vener- 
able building  that  was  full  of  memorials  of  great  personages  who 
had  lived  there — which  seemed  to  belong  to  another  century  and 
another  order  of  people ;  the  noble  and  striking  figures  whom 
history  paints — fancy  this  old  place  belonginfr  to  a  young  English 
girl,  who  was  familiar  with  Brighton,  rode  in  the  Row,  and  read 
the  Times  ! 


124  KILMENY. 

I  was  startled  by  a  singular  noise  behind  mo,  and,  lookina 
around,  found  beside  me  a  young  horse  that  had  come  playfully 
cantering  up,  and  now  stood  within  a  yard  of  the  iron  railing  ou 
which  I  sat.  I  rubbed  his  nose  with  a  cane  I  had  (all  the  young 
men  of  that  day  wore  a  cane  as  part  of  their  attire) — he  threw  up 
his  head,  trotted  off,  and  then  came  back  again.  Finally,  by  dint 
of  various  mananivres,  1  managed  to  get  near  enough  to  seize  hold 
of  his  mane  and  jump  on  his  back. 

"  Come,"  I  said,  "  you  shall  pay  for  the  fright  you  gave  ine." 

Such,  however,  was  not  his  intention.  He  tossed  up  his  head ; 
he  shot  down  his  fore -legs,  and  kicked  out  his  hind  ones;  he 
pranced  and  swerved,  and  tried  all  his  tricks,  with  no  avail.  This, 
at  least,  I  had  learned  in  my  boyhood — to  cling  with  my  knees  to 
a  horse's  bare  back,  so  that  he  might  as  well  have  tried  to  shake 
off  a  leech  ;  and  at  length  this  particular  animal  gave  in,  and  start- 
ed into  a  good  round  gallop  along  that  part  of  the  park  in  which 
he  had  been  turned  out  to  graze. 

The  excitement  of  this  wild  night-ride  grew  into  a  sort  of  mad- 
ness. The  moonlight  had  come  out  more  strongly,  and  it  seemed 
to  me  that  it  was  weaving  strange  shapes  and  figures  of  the  mist 
that  lay  around  the  trees.  Such  a  mild  and  beautiful  night,  in 
this  old  English  park,  should  have  produced  English  fairies  and 
.sprites  ;  Puck  should  have  been  peeping  from  among  the  branches 
of  the  oaks;  the  fair  Titania  and  her  magic  train  should  have  been 
coming  sedately  over  the  sward,  with  the  jealous  Oboron  down 
there  in  the  brushwood  to  see  her  pass.  But  with  the  sound  of 
horses'  hoofs  throbbing  in  the  stillness,  there  was  something  Ger- 
man, wild,  legendary  al)0ut  the  place.  The  figures  in  the  mist 
seemed  to  be  tall  shapes  that  grinned  maliciously,  and  waved 
their  shadowy  garments  as  th(!y  gathered  together  and  chatter- 
ed in  the  moonlight.  But  could  any  one  of  them  catch  me  on 
this  .strong  young  beast,  that  seemed  to  be  possessed  by  the  mad- 
ness of  the  hour?  My  hand  was  twisted  in  his  mane;  my  cap 
had  fallen  off,  and  I  felt  the  wind  rushing  through  my  lifted  hair. 
I  laughed  aloud  in  defiance  as  we  tore  past  the  grinning  figures. 

Then,  just  beside  me,  1  heard  a  sudden  shriek,  so  shrill  and  sud- 
den that  it  seemed  like  a  death-scream.  1  saw  that  I  had  ridden 
around  the  park  and  back  again,  almost  to  the  gate  of  the  modern 
wing  of  iiiirnliam  House.  1  tried  to  stop  my  excited  steed;  but 
the  \>\\]\r.  pHi(l  no  attention.      So  I  managed  to  slide  (lown  an<l  get 


BURNHAM    PARK.  125 

clear  of  him  without  a  kick ;  and  then  liastily  ran  back  to  the 
spot  at  which  I  had  heard  the  scream. 

There  was  something  lying  on  the  ground — it  was  a  white  face. 
When  I  got  near  I  was  horrified  to  find  that  it  was  Miss  Burnhan; 
who  lay  there,  quite  motionless  and  pale,  the  dark  shawl  she  had 
been  wearing  thrown  back  and  revealing  the  deathlike  features. 
I  knew  not  what  to  do.  If  I  ran  to  the  House  for  water,  what 
might  happen  in  the  interim  ?  I  wished  to  lift  her  np,  and  ask 
her  if  she  were  hurt ;  but  I  dared  not.  I  took  her  hand ;  and 
somehow  I  was  obliged  to  let  it  fall  again — the  mere  tonch  of  it 
by  my  fingers  seemed  a  sort  of  desecration. 

With  what  intense  relief  I  saw  that  she  was  coming  round  again  ! 
When  her  dazed  eyes  caught  sight  of  me,  she  uttered  a  slight 
cry,  and  shuddered  so  that  I  thought  she  was  like  to  faint  again. 
But  by  and  by  a  strange  look  came  into  the  eyes,  and  she  was 
about  to  speak  when  I  asked  her  hurriedly  if  she  had  been  hurt. 

"  It  is  you,  really,  then  ?"  she  said,  and  she  glanced  in  a  fright- 
ened way  all  around  her. 

"  I  hope  you  are  not  hurt,"  I  said.  "It  was  a  foolish  trick  of 
mine — and  I  thought  when  I  heard  some  one  scream  that — " 

She  shuddered  slightly,  and  then  attempted  to  rise.  I  was 
forced  to  oflFer  her  my  hand,  and  afterwards  my  arm,  as  I  saw  she 
was  rather  unsteady  when  she  rose.  For  a  little  time  she  availed 
herself  of  this  assistance ;  then  she  withdrew  her  hand  and  said 
coldly — 

"  You  need  not  come  any  farther." 

"  But  you  have  not  told  me  if  you  are  hurt,  Miss  Burnham." 

"  No,  I  was  only  frightened.  I  should  not  have  been  out  so 
late — I  suppose  it  is  past  eleven — but  the  night  was  so  beautiful ; 
and  then  when  I  saw  you  galloping  up,  with  your  hair  stream- 
ing—" 

She  smiled  faintly. 

*'  I  am  more  than  sorry,"  I  said.  "  I  did  not  know  you  had  re- 
turned from  Brighton ;  and  I  am  sure  I  did  not  expect  to  meet 
any  one  in  the  park,  or  I  should  not  have  done  anything  so  fool- 
ish. I  hope  you  will  forgive  me  for  the  alarm  I  have  caused 
you." 

By  this  time  we  had  nearly  reached  the  shrubbery  that  sur- 
rounds the  back  gate  of  Burnham  House.  I  heard  the  sound  of 
footsteps  00  the  gravel ;  and  then  I  heard  some  one  crying — 


126  KILMENY. 

"  Hettie,  Hettie,  where  are  you  ?" 

It  was  Mr.  Alfred  Buriiham's  voice. 

My  companion  murmured  some  words  of  tlianlcs,  bowed  slight- 
ly, and  walked  towards  the  House.  I  wandered  up  and  down  the 
park  in  the  moonlight  until  I  found  my  cap,  and  then  went  home. 
There  was  a  note  lying  on  the  table  from  Bonnie  Lesley.  She 
wanted  to  know  the  name  of  the  man  in  Brighton  to  whom  I  had 
tfiven  her  fan  to  be  mended. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

THE    ladies'    garden. 


Old  Job  Ives  appai'ently  got  much  better ;  and  I  prepared  to 
return  to  London.  On  tlie  morning  of  my  intended  departure  I 
received  a  message  from  Buniliam  House,  to  the  effect  that  Miss 
Hester  wished  to  see  me  for  a  few  minutes.  Accordingly  I  went 
over  to  the  House.  Since  our  memorable  adventure  in  Burnham 
Park,  I  had  met  lier  several  times  when  she  was  out  riding.  Some- 
times she  was  accompanied  by  old  Stephen,  the  groom  ;  sometimes 
by  Colonel  Buruhani ;  but  more  frequently  by  her  cousin,  Mr.  Al- 
fred. 

A  very  handsome  pair  these  two  looked  now,  as  they  rode  along 
the  leafy  lanes  that  intersect  the  Burnham  valley.  They  were  no 
longer  boy  and  girl,  but  man  and  woman  ;  ;nid  it  was  unckM'stood 
among  the  neighbors  that  they  would  in  time  become  husband 
and  wife. 

"  And  a  good  tiling,  too,"  they  added,  "  for  that  yaller-faced 
young  malin  as  has  spent  all  the  years  of  'is  life  a-doin'  nothin' 
ony  waitin'  for  ur." 

When  I  went  into  the  House,  he  and  she  were  playing  billiards 
in  the  old  hall.  Burnham  House  was  divided  into  the  ancient 
historical  building,  all  the  rooms  of  which  were  preserved  intact, 
and  a  new  wing  which  had  been  built  by  Miss  Hester's  father,  for 
the  better  accommodation  of  visitors.  I'hc  latter  rooms  had  never 
been  properly  finished ;  but  they  were  used  by  the  family,  who 
preferred  them  to  the  old,  damp,  musty  chambers  of  the  House 
proper.      This  vi'iieraMe  hall  was  mIiduI   eiuht\'   feet  by  forty-five, 


THE    ladies'   garden.  127 

and  had  a  narrow  gallery  running  around  the  walls,  with  a  front- 
age of  wondrously  carved  oak.  The  balustrades  of  the  staircase 
going  up  to  this  gallery  were  also  of  carved  wood,  of  singular  de- 
sign and  rare  execution.  In  front  of  the  gallery,  at  the  head  of 
the  hall,  was  a  pair  of  huge  antlers,  and  immediately  underneath 
the  Burnham  ai'ms ;  on  the  walls  surrounding  the  gallery  hung 
a  series  of  large  and  gloomy  family  portraits,  many  of  them  by 
celebrated  masters,  and  one  or  two  of  them  the  originals  of  well- 
known  engravings ;  while  on  the  walls  underneath  the  gallery — 
and  especially  over  the  great  fireplace — were  ranged  all  manner 
of  rusty  muskets,  daggers,  swords,  pistols,  and  cross-bows.  Down 
here  in  a  corner  was  the  chest  that  contained  Oliver  Crom weirs 
Bible  ;  there,  in  a  window-recess,  were  displayed  a  sword  and  belt 
which  Elizabeth  had  presented  to  one  of  the  old  Burnhams  on 
visiting  the  House — everywhere  the  look  of  antiquity  that  the 
successive  holders  and  owners  of  the  place  had  religiously  pre- 
served. In  the  midst  of  all  this  a  modern  billiard -table,  and  a 
bright  young  English  lady  making  flukes. 

"  Good-morning,"  said  Burnham  carelessly,  trying  to  make  a 
simple  carom  and  missing  it — it  was  clear  that  his  opponent  was 
not  betting.     "  Wonder  you  never  came  over  before." 

The  ease  of  his  manner  was,  I  presume,  intended  to  show  that 
he  had  forgotten  that  little  incident  about  the  weight  of  the 
stone. 

"  I  wished  to  ask  your  advice,  Mr.  Ives,  about  the  pillars  in  the 
drawing-room,"  said  Miss  Burnham  ;  "  I  hope  you  will  forgive  my 
breaking  in  upon  your  time.  Will  you  come  this  way  and  look 
at  them  ?" 

There  was  no  effort  of  any  kind  in  her  speech  ;  nothing  but  a 
quiet,  self-possessed,  matter-of-fact  directness,  which  was  neither 
forbiddingly  cold  on  the  one  hand,  nor  awkwardly  familiar  on 
the  other.  I  professed  myself  willing  to  do  whatever  I  could, 
and  so  she  led  the  way  through  a  narrow  stone  corridor  which 
opened  out  on  what  was  called  the  Ladies'  Garden.  Her  cousin 
remained  behind. 

.  She  was  a  little  woman,  you  know ;  but  she  wore  a  rather  long 
train,  and  she  walked  with  a  grace  that  was  queenly  in  its  every 
motion.  And  when  she  got  out  into  the  sunlight,  and  turned  her 
face  towards  me,  she  looked  as  fresh  and  bright  and  sweet  as  a 
wild  strawberry — one  of  those  tiny,  sweet,  wild  berries  that  you 


128  KILMENY. 

catch  in  tlie  caily  morning,  with  sunlight  on  its  fresh  color  and 
sweetness  in  its  heart,  I  suppose  anyhody  looking  at  her  from  a 
distance  would  at  once  have  called  her  dark  and  small ;  but  when 
you  came  near,  and  saw  the  fresh  young  life  that  was  in  the 
charming  face,  with  its  handsome  features  and  its  pretty  forehead, 
and  the  strange,  wise  kindliness  that  lit  up  those  eyes  of  which  I 
have  many  a  time  spoken — when  you  saw  the  perfect  symmetry 
of  her  form  and  the  perfect  grace  that  seemed  to  accom{)any  her 
every  movement — even  if  the  small  pale  fingers  were  only  pulling 
a  rose-leaf  in  two — you  began  to  dream  dreams  about  this  slight 
and  young  English  girl,  and  wonder  whether  there  lay  not  under 
that  calm  exterior  great  and  even  tragic  possibilities  of  character. 
She  was  fit  to  have  lived  in  the  olden  days,  you  would  have  deem- 
ed— in  the  days  when  great  deeds  of  self-sacrifice  and  heroism 
were  oftentimes  demanded  from  our  gentle  English  dames  and 
their  gentler  daughters.  It  was  so  easy  to  imagine  her  grown  into 
a  noble  and  perfect  woman,  that,  as  you  thought  of  her  fut\ire  l)e- 
ing  linked  to  that  of  such  a  creature  as  he  whom  she  had  just  left, 
it  was  impossible  not  to  grow  sad  at  heart. 

"  I  understand  you  and  Mr.  Heatherleigh  work  together  when 
you  are  in  town  ?"  she  asked. 

"  Yes,"  1  said. 

"  Then  perhaps  you  could  tell  me  whether  ."le  and  you  together 
would  care  to  come  down  here  and  put  a  few  sketches — or  even 
some  ornamentation  merely — in  the  panelling  of  those  pillars;" 

The  wing  which  her  father  had  built  (and  which  he  had  nearly 
ruined  hiniself  in  building)  liad  been  made  to  front  this  Ladies' 
Garden,  so  that  it  might  not  interfere  with  the  original  look  of 
the  house  as  seen  from  the  great  avenue.  She  walked  over  to 
one  of  tlie  French  windows,  ojieiied  it,  and  stei>ped  into  the  draw- 
ing-room. 1  followed,  but  I  knew  the  spacious  and  handsomely 
ornamented  apartment  well,  and  also  the  pillars  which  she  wished 
Heatherleigh  to  (h'corate. 

"  It  would  be  difficult  to  ornament  these  pillars  in  keeping  with 
the  rest  of  the  room,"  I  said;   "tliey  ought  to  liave  pictures." 

"That  is  exactly  what  I  wish,"  she  said.  "  Most  drawing-rooms 
look  narrow  and  formal  from  the  absence  of  pictures.  1  was  think- 
ing chiefiy  of  the  winter-time;  and  then  it  would  be  so  pleasant, 
when  one  is  slmt  up  indoors  in  tlu;  long  evenings,  to  have  just  be- 
bide  you  a  view  of  some  gn-al  distance.      The  pictures  should  be 


THE  ladies'  garden.  129 

faint   and  thin   and  light,  with   long  perspectives,  which  would 
make  you  forget  that  you  were  shut  up  in  a  room." 

"  Then  you  don't  want  merely  decorative  pictures  ?" 

"  No.  I  should  like  to  have  pictures  as  real-looking  as  stereo 
scopic  views,  but  still  so  light  as  not  to  be  too  prominent  in  the 
room." 

"  Leave  that  to  Heatlierleigh,  then,"  I  said, "  and  let  him  follow 
his  own  fancy.  You  should  see  the  smoking-room  he  painted  for 
Lord  Westbournecroft — two  summers  ago.  The  room  juts  out 
from  the  house  like  a  conservatory ;  and  on  three  sides  there  are 
alternating  panels  and  windows,  with  pictures  on  the  panels  and 
transparent  flowers  on  the  windows.  The  flowers  you  only  see 
during  the  day ;  the  pictures  when  the  place  is  lit  up  at  night." 

"  Miss  Lesley  told  me  he  had  done  something  of  the  kind,  or  I 
should  not  have  asked,"  she  said.  "  Now  can  you  tell  me  what  it 
would  probably  cost  to  have  them  done  ?" 

"  I  can  only  tell  you  that  he  was  asked  by  Lord  Westbourne- 
croft to  fix  his  own  terms,  and  he  said  five  guineas  a-day ;  but  he 
received  some  considerable  present  over  and  above  that  when  he 
left." 

"  And  you,"  she  said,  with  some  little  embarrassment — "  you 
will  come?" 

"  On  one  condition,"  I  said,  calmly, 

"  And  that  ?" 

"  Is  that  you  will  deign  to  accept  as  a  gift  whatever  I  may  be 
able  to  do." 

Her  cheek  flushed,  and  she  bent  her  eyes  on  the  ground. 

"  I  cannot  do  that,"  she  said  ;  "  you  have  no  right  to  expect 
me.  Besides,  it  is  absurd.  If  Mr.  Heatlierleigh  accepts  payment 
for  what  he  does,  why  should  not  you — " 

She  did  not  finish  the  sentence. 

"  Why  should  I  not  take  money  from  you,  you  would  say. 
Well,  I'd  rather  not — it  is  merely  a  notion  or  whim  I  have." 

She  looked  at  me  for  a  moment  with  those  grave, earnest  eyes; 
and  I  imagined  that  she  knew  why  I  would  sooner  have  cut  my 
right' hand  off  than  take  money — a  second  time — from  her.  1 
dared  to  think  that  she  would  accept  my  offer,  and  thanks  were 
already  on  my  tongue,  when  she  said,  coldly — 

"  I  am  sorry,  then,  that  I  must  give  up  thinking  about  this  pro 
posal  at  present.     I  am  much  obliged  to  you,  however." 

F2 


130  KILMENY. 

Here  Alfred  Burnham  came  along  the  corridor,  whistling. 

She  stood  for  a  moment  or  two  in  appart-nt  indecision,  as 
though  she  expected  me  to  rescind  my  resohition.  That  was  im- 
possible. 

"  Shall  I  write  to  Mr.  Heatherleigh,"  I  asked,  "  and  say  that  you 
wish  to  see  him  when  he  returns  ?" 

"  Pray  don't,"  she  said,  in  the  same  courteously  distant  man- 
ner ;  "  I  shall  think  over  the  matter  first.  Perhaps  I  may  find 
some  less  troublesome  way  of  getting  the  pillars  finished." 

So  we  bowed  to  each  other,  and  said  "  good-morning,"  and  I 
withdrew.  Alfred  Burnham  came  through  the  corridor  with  me, 
and  said — apparently  because  he  fancied  he  ought  to  say  some- 
thing— 

"  Won't  you  stay,  and  liave  a  game  at  billiards  ?" 

"  No,  thank  you,"  I  said,  tuining  my  back  on  Burnhani  House, 
and  wondering  when  1  should  see  it  again. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

THE    LAST    OF    UNCLE    JOB. 


I  HASTENED  dowu  iiito  the  valley,  and  up  and  over  the  hill 
again,  towards  my  uncle's  farm,  that  I  might  bid  the  old  man 
good-bye.  Even  if  Hester  Burnham  refused  to  give  me  my  re- 
venge by  becoming  my  debtor,  there  was  j)lenty  of  other  jvork 
before  me.  I  resolved  to  go  no  more  to  Brighton,  and  its  idle 
atmosphere.  Polly  Whistler  had  promised  to  help  me,  and  T  was 
able  now  to  pay  her  for  her  assistance.  But  tlie  story  about  what 
this  work  was,  and  what  hand  she  liad  in  it,  will  come  in  its  prop- 
er time. 

I  found,  on  reaching  the  farm,  the  whole  household  in  conster- 
nation. My  uncle  had  suffered  a  severe  relapse,  and  was  now  de- 
lirious. The  doctor  had  been  sent  for,  but  he  had  gone  to  Steeple 
Heyford,  and  might  not  return  until  night.  My  mother  was  glad 
to  get  me  into  the  house,  as  my  father  had  had  to  It-ave  early  in 
the  morning  to  attend  to  some  piirt  of  his  duties. 

"  Your  uncle  has  done  nothing  all  night  l»ut  talk  about  you 
ami  Catlin,  and    poor   Kntie   Dormer,"  said   my   mother.      "Oh, 


THE    LAST    OF    UNCLE    JOB.  131 

Ted,  it's  a  fearful  thing  to  think  of  his  condition.  I  think  he  is* 
getting  worse ;  but  he  only  swears  if  I  talk  about  getting  Mr. 
Joyce  to  see  him,  and  says  such  dreadful  things  about  religion, 
and  his  soul,  and  the  next  world.  I  hope  he  doesn't  know  what 
he  is  saying." 

If  that  was  likely  to  be  a  saving  clause.  Job  had  certainly  the 
benefit  of  it,  for  he  was  murmuring  incoherent  nonsense  when  I 
entered  the  room.  He  either  imagined  or  pretended  to  imagine 
that  I  was  the  devil,  addressed  me  in  his  grim  saturnine  fashion, 
and  asked  me  if  I  had  prepared  sufficient  room  for  the  rest  of 
the  Missenden  and  Burnham  people  who  were  likely  to  follow 
him. 

"  I  bain't  a  bad  sort,"  he  said,  apologetically,  "  although  my  sis- 
ter-in-law, a  rare  good  woman,  said  as  I  wur  sure  to  corae  to  you 
at  last.  And  'ere  I  am ;  and  I'm  darned  if  I'm  a  darned  bit 
afeard  o'  you,  or  one  of  your  darned  crew." 

"  Oh  !  Job  !"  cried  my  mother,  ready  to  burst  into  tears. 

"  Why,  don't  you  know  me  ?"  I  said.  "  I'm  no  more  the  devil 
than  you  are.     Don't  you  know  me.  Uncle  Job  ?" 

"  Whisper — a  secret,"  he  said,  softly. 

I  bent  down  to  him,  and  he  said  under  his  breath — 

"  No,  you're  not  the  devil,  but  you'll  darned  soon  be  one  of  his 
friends." 

With  that  he  laughed  out  shrill  and  loud,  in  a  way  to  make  one 
shudder.  Then  he  lay  for  a  long  time,  and  when  he  next  spoke 
he  seemed  quite  sensible,  but  for  a  peculiar  look  that  occasionally 
appeared  in  his  deep-set  eyes. 

"  Ted,  you  know  the  story  as  I  told  you  about  Katie  Dormer  ? 
It's  fur  away  back  now — in  a  mist  like — and  it  seems  as  if  I  had 
never  know'd  her.  But  you'll  find  her  out,  and  give  her  the 
money,  and  tell  her  as  how  old  Job  Ives  had  a  kind  word  for  her 
to  the  last." 

"  Get  well,  and  find  her  out  for  yourself,"  I  said. 

"  None  o'  your  darned  lies,"  he  said  with  a  scowl ;  "  I  bain't  a 
fool,  be  I  ?  You  say  as  I'll  get  well — yeas,  very  like  !  Hillo  !  is 
it  you,  Ted  ?  I  thought  'twur  one  o'  them  darned  neighbors  as 
are  tryin'  to  save  poor  old  Job  Ives's  soul — d — n  'em  !  But  doan't 
you  go  for  destroyin'  the  Churc^i,  Ted,  all  because  some  precious 
clever  fellows  think  as  they  can  do  without  it.  They  can't.  It's 
ony  the  fear  o'  the  next  world  as  keeps  the   ignorant,  supersti- 


132  KILMENY. 

tious,  darned  hidiots  straiglit,  and  if  ye  don't  frighten  them  wT 
hell—" 

"Job  !"  cried  my  mother  to  the  grinning  old  heathen,  "  do  you 
know  what  you're  saying?" 

The  anxious  little  woman  was  beside  herself  to  know  how  to 
arrest  his  rambling  tongue,  and  alter  the  current  of  his  unruly 
thoughts. 

"  You're  a  good  woman,  Susan,"  he  growled,  turning  away  from 
us  both — "  a  rare  good  woman,  but  a  darned  fool." 

My  mother  begged  me  to  stay  with  her,  and  so  I  loitered  about 
the  house  the  whole  day,  sometimes  in  the  room,  sometimes  out 
in  the  back  garden.  My  father  looked  in  once  or  twice,  but  he 
had  some  important  business  on  hand,  and  could  not  finally  stay 
and  relieve  my  mother  until  the  evening. 

It  was  a  dull  and  dreary  day  for  everybody  concerned  ;  my 
mother  was  anxious  to  hear  all  about  my  new  ways  of  life,  and  it 
was  to  her  alone  that  I  ever  revealed  any  of  my  ambitious  dreams. 
1  could  see  that  the  little  woman  was  pleased  to  hear  of  these 
projects ;  and  her  tender,  thougthf ul  eyes  grew  dim  with  tears,  as 
she  hoped,  whatever  befell  me,  that  I  might  have  as  happy  a  life 
as  she  had  had.  I  did  not  tell  her  the  part  of  my  vague  dreams 
of  the  future  that  referred  to  herself ;  and  yet  sometimes  I  fan- 
cied that  she  guessed  my  secret  wish. 

I  told  her  of  all  the  various  people  I  had  met.  Singularly 
enough,  she  seemed  to  prefer  that  I  should  keep  among  my  ar- 
tistic friends,  instead  of  prosecuting  the  chance  acquaintanceships 
1  had  made  in  that  fashionable  world  into  which  I  had  been  casu- 
ally introduced.  With  what  I  said  of  Bonnie  Lesley  she  seemed 
particularly  pleased. 

"  I  fancy,  from  what  you  say,  that  she  must  be  a  girl  of  a  way- 
ward or  original  character,  who  does  not  quite  feel  herself  at  home 
among   these    fashionable   people.      Her   kindness  to  you  shows 
how   iMdej)endeiit  she   is  in  her  choice  of  friends,  and  she  must 
be  very  good-hearted.     Then  what  you  say  about  her  being  so 
handsome  is  all  the  m>)re  f-redit  to  her,  as  it  is  a  wonder  she  bat 
not  been  spoiled.     What  age  is  she  ?" 
"  She  must  be  about  as  old  as  I  am." 
"  Then  she  is  older  than  Hester  Burnham  ?" 
"Yes." 
"They  are  friends,  you  say?" 


THE    LAST    OF    UNCLE    JOB.  133 

"  Acquaintances,  at  least." 

"  It  is  singular  that  Miss  Hester  has  never  spoken  to  me  about 
her,  as  she  and  I  have  long  chats  about  nearly  everybody  she 
knows.  Ah,  Ted,  your  friend  Miss  Lesley  may  be  all  that  you 
say,  but  she  is  no  better-hearted  a  girl,  nor  prettier,  than  Hester 
Burnhani." 

"  They  are  so  unlike  each  other  that  you  cannot  compare 
them,"  I  said.  "  Miss  Burnham  is  perhaps  bound  by  her  posi- 
tion to  be  more  circumspect  and  reticent  than  Bonnie  Lesley,  as 
we  call  her.  Besides,  I  know  Bonnie  Lesley  very  well,  and  I 
scarcely  know  Miss  Burnham  at  all." 

"  No,  you  and  she  are  not  the  friends  you  used  to  be  when 
you  were  children." 

"  How  could  you  expect  it  ?  I  can  tell  you  I  was  suflSciently 
embarrassed  when  I  was  forced  to  be  in  the  same  room  with  Miss 
Burnham  in  London.  If  the  people  who  asked  us  both  to  their 
house  knew  our  relative  positions  here,  wouldn't  they  laugh." 

And  my  mother  laughed,  too,  and  blushed  as  if  she  were  still 
nineteen,  and  had  just  been  accused  of  running  away  from  the 
parsonage  to  marry  a  good-hearted  and  handsome  young  keeper. 

Night  had  fallen  when  the  doctor  drove  up  in  his  dog-cart. 
The  trap  and  horse — the  latter  a  rather  mettlesome  cob — were 
left  in  the  charge  of  a  lad,  and  the  doctor  walked  into  the  kitchen, 
where  my  father  and  I  stood.  My  mother  came  out  of  the  room, 
and  seemed  in  a  state  of  great  emotion.  The  doctor  went  into 
the  bedroom,  which  was  on  the  same  floor ;  but  my  mother  did 
not  accompany  him. 

"  What's  the  matter,  Sue  ?"  said  my  father. 

"He's  been  talking  about  that  girl  fit  to  break  any  one's  heart," 
she  said,  with  tears  in  her  eyes;  "  I  never  thought  he  could  be 
so  fond  of  any  one.  And  now  he  imagines  that  they  are  going 
to  be  married,  and  he  has  been  talking  to  her  as  if  she  were  there ; 
and  when  the  doctor's  dog-cart  drove  up,  he  said  it  was  the  car- 
riage come  to  take  him  to  church,  where  she  was  waiting  for 
him." 

At  this  moment  the  doctor  appeared. 

"  He  is  very  excited,  and  we  must  get  him  soothed  at  any 
cost,"  he  said.  "  Nothing  will  do  for  him  but  that  I  must 
go  up-stairs  to  his  old  bedroom  and  bring  him  down  a  pict- 
ure which  he   says  is  behind   some  books.     Mrs.  Ives,  will  you 


134  KILMENY. 

give  me  a  candle  ?     Mr.  Ives,  will  you  go  in  beside   him  for  a 
moment  ?" 

My  mother  herself  took  the  candle  to  show  the  doctor  up  the 
narrow  wooden  stairs ;  while  my  father  passed  through  the  kitch- 
en, and  went  into  my  uncle's  room.  A  second  afterwards — and 
all  this  had  occurred  within  a  minute — I  noticed  a  figure  daii 
across  the  yard  towards  the  dog-cart.  Something  made  me  rush 
out  to  see  what  this  could  mean,  and  there  I  saw  my  Uncle  Job 
trying  to  persuade  the  bewildered  lad  who  had  charge  of  the  dog- 
cart to  go  away,  and  give  the  horse  up  to  him.  I  ran  forward 
and  seized  him  by  the  arm.  He  shook  me  ofE,  and  swore  hor- 
ribly. He  tried  to  get  up  on  the  dog-cart ;  I  caught  him  by  the 
neck  and  shoulders  and  pulled  him  down  by  main  force. 

"Would  you  make  me  late  for  church,  you  darned  hound!" 
screamed  my  uncle,  aiming  a  blow  at  my  face. 

I  warded  off  the  blow,  and  closed  with  him  again.  But  twenty 
men  could  not  have  held  him  down.  He  struggled  up  into  the 
dog-cart,  caught  hold  of  the  reins  in  the  darkness,  and  the  fool  of 
a  boy  jumped  back  from  the  head  of  the  horse,  that  was  now  ex- 
cited with  the  noise.  At  the  same  moment  my  father,  in  great 
consteiTiation,  came  running  across  the  yard,  and  shouted  out  for 
God's  sake  to  catch  hold  of  his  brother. 

I  saw  in  a  moment  how  it  had  happened.  My  uncU-,  possessed 
by  the  illusion  that  he  was  about  to  be  njarried,  had  cunningly 
employed  a  ruse  to  get  the  doctor  out  of  the  way,  had  hurriedly 
donned  a  pair  of  trousers  and  a  coat,  stepped  out  of  the  window 
and  ran  across  the  yard.  My  father,  on  entering  and  finding  the 
bed  empty,  had  probably  been  too  bewildered  to  notice  the  open 
window,  and  very  likely  wasted  some  seconds  in  looking  under 
the  bed  or  tables. 

However,  there  was  not  an  instant  to  lose  now.  I  ran  forward 
to  the  horse's  head,  and  was  knocked  down  the  same  moment. 
Wlioii  I  rose  (one  of  the  wheels  just  grazing  my  elbow)  I  saw 
that  my  father  liad  scrambled  up  behind,  and  was  endeavoring  to 
catch  at  the  reins.  The  horse  was  now  wild ;  and  as  he  backed 
the  dog-cart  with  a  terrific  crash  against  the  stone-wall  of  the 
farm-yard,  the  doctor  appeared. 

"Give  him  his  liead !"  lie  shouted.  "Give  him  his  head  for  a 
bit,  or  he'll  be  the  death  of  the  whole  of  you." 

But  the  responsibility  no  longer  rested  with  mv  father.     My 


THE    LAST    OF    UNCLE    JOB.  135 

ancle  had  again  wrested  the  reins  from  him,  and  the  horse  sprang 
forward. 

"  Job,  for  God's  sake,  give  me  the  reins !"  cried  my  father,  who 
still  stood  up  behind. 

"  Doan't  you  hear  the  church  bells  ringing  V  shouted  my  uncle, 
hoarsely.  "  I  can  hear  'era  plain,  all  the  way  up  the  hill ;  and 
she's  waiting — she's  waiting — she's  waiting." 

By  this  time  he  had  driven  the  horse  into  a  narrow  path  that 
led  from  the  farm-yard  across  my  uncle's  fields,  and  down  the 
hill,  passing  the  deep  dell  of  which  you  have  heard  him  speak. 
Tiie  path  was  narrow  and  rugged,  for  it  was  only  used  for  the 
farm-carts,  and  the  doctor  and  I,  running  after  the  slight  vehicle, 
could  see  it  swaying  from  side  to  side,  as  it  fell  into  deep  ruts, 
and  was  dragged  out  again  by  the  half-maddened  horse. 

"  Yes,  Job,  yes,"  we  heard  my  father  say,  imploringly,  "  we 
know  she's  waiting,  but  let  me  drive — there's  a  good  fellow  ! 
Job,  old  man,  give  me  the  reins !" 

But  again  he  lashed  the  horse,  and  then  he  waved  his  whip 
triumphantly  in  the  air.  There  was  just  enough  light  for  us  to 
see  his  spare  figure,  that  looked  tall  and  gaunt  in  the  vague  dark- 
ness, standing  erect  in  front  of  the  dog-cart,  while  he  waved  his 
arm  and  cried — 

"  No  man  but  me  shall  drive  !  No  man  but  myself !  For 
doan't  ye  hear  the  church  bells  down  there — I  can  hear  'em  ring- 
ing, ringing,  ringing — in  the  air,  all  around,  up  in  the  sky  too — 
and  she's  waiting  ;  I  teU  you,  she's  waiting  !  she's  waiting  !" 

He  laughed  out  shrilly  and  clear. 

"  If  we  don't  stop  the  horse,  they  are  both  dead  men !"  cried 
the  doctor ;  but  it  was  hard  to  keep  up  with  the  dog-cart  in  this 
dark  lane,  at  the  pace  the  horse  was  going. 

For  they  had  now  got  on  the  breast  of  the  hill,  where  there 
was  no  bank  on  either  side  of  the  rough  path.  I  heard  my  fa- 
ther making  more  desperate  efforts  to  restrain  his  brother,  while 
Job  was  shouting  more  wildly  and  shrilly  than  ever  about  the 
church  bells  "  ringing,  ringing,  ringing" — then  there  was  a  fearful 
crash,  prolonged  for  a  couple  of  seconds,  a  hoarse  groan  or  two, 
then  silence  and  darkness. 

That  terrible  stillness !  I  stood  on  the  edge  of  the  deep  cleft 
in  the  hill-side  alone — for  I  had  outstripped  the  doctor — and  it 
seemed  to  me  as  if  the  darkness  was  throbbing  with  points  of  fire. 


136  KILMENY. 

During  that  moment  of  paralyzed  licsitation  the  clouds  parted, 
and  there  was  a  pale  gleam  of  moonlight  thrown  along  the  cir- 
cular side  of  the  dell.  But  down  in  the  hollow  there  was  only 
crloom,  and  the  dreadful  silence  that  hung  over  the  fate  of  two 
men. 

My  uncle  had  formerly  plouglied  up  the  bottom  and  the  other 
side  of  the  dell ;  but  the  side  that  I  now  proceeded  to  descend 
was  covered  with  patches  of  brier  growing  among  the  rough  in- 
equalities of  the  chalk.  I  scrambled  down  among  these  weeds, 
dreading  every  moment  to  touch  a  living  form,  and  yet  possessed 
by  a  vague  horror  that  it  might  not  be  alive.  I  heard  the  doctor 
following  me.  The  first  object  I  stumbled  on  was  the  wlieel  of 
the  dog-cart,  and  then  I  trod  on  the  leg  of  the  horse.  The  ani- 
mal was  quite  motionless. 

"  Father  !"  I  cried,  making  a  wild  effort  to  break  this  frightful 
silence,  "  where  are  you?" 

There  was  no  answer. 

"Stay,"  said  the  doctor,  "until  I  see  if  I  have  a  light  with 
me." 

But  the  moonlight  was  now  so  full  and  strong  above  that  the 
pale  reflection  of  it  down  here  was  sufficient  to  guide  our  steps. 
We  had  not  long  to  search.  My  father  and  my  uncle  lay  within 
half-a-dozen  yards  of  eacli  other.  Neitlicr  stirred  as  we  ap- 
proached. The  doctor  knelt  down  for  a  moment  by  the  side  of 
Uncle  Job,  and  took  his  hand  in  his ;  then  he  came  over  to 
wlierc  I  was  trying  to  lift  up  the  helpless  body  of  my  father. 

"Who  is  to  go  back  to  your  mother?"  he  said — and  his  voice 
seemed  to  me  distant  and  strange  and  unrecognizable.  "They 
are  both  quite  dead." 


IN    LONDON    AGAIN.  137 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

IN    LONDON    AGAIN. 

What  a  cjood  friend  Hester  Burnham  was  to  my  mother  dur- 
ing that  terrible  time.  The  wonderful,  wise  way  in  which  the 
girl  crept  into  her  confidence,  opened  the  fountains  of  her  grief 
with  a  tender  sympathy,  and  then  wiled  her  away  into  thinking 
of  practical  necessities  and  future  plans,  w'as  beyond  comprehen- 
sion, as  it  was  beyond  all  praise.  Where  had  this  young  creature 
been  educated  into  a  large  and  heartfelt  sympathy  with  human 
sorrow  ?  Where  had  she  been  taught  her  kindly,  matronly  ways, 
that  were  not  the  ways  of  an  inexperienced  girl  ?  And  who  had 
lent  to  those  eyes  which  were  meant  to  bewitch  and  steal  the 
hearts  of  men  that  grave  and  beautiful  compassion  which  seemed 
to  transfigure  the  face  of  the  girl,  and  make  one  regard  her  as 
something  more  than  woman  ? 

My  mother  and  she  had  always  been  friends,  but  during  this 
time  it  seemed  to  me  that  no  two  human  beings  were  ever  so 
closely  drawn  together  as  these  two  were.  On  the  day  of  the 
funeral,  my  mother  and  she  came  to  the  small  old  church  of 
Burnham  to  hear  the  service  read,  and  Hester  Buniham  sat  in 
the  same  pew  with  my  mother,  and  held  her  hand  in  hers  the 
whole  time.  They  stood  at  a  little  distance  oflf,  and  watched  the 
lowering  of  the  two  cofiins  into  the  grave ;  and  then  they  went 
away  by  themselves — whither,  I  know  not. 

My  mother  could  not  remain  in  the  place,  so  I  decided  upon 
taking  her  with  me  up  to  London.  Fortunately,  the  man  whose 
farm  lay  adjacent  to  that  of  my  uncle  was  not  only  anxious  to 
take  up  the  lease,  but  was  willing  to  purchase  the  entire  stock  of 
the  farm.  I  had  a  lawyer  sent  down  from  London ;  the  neces- 
sary valuations  made,  and  the  transfer  of  the  farm  was  complete. 
The  proceeds  of  the  sale — somewhere  about  £2500,  were  invested 
on  mortgage  for  my  mother,  along  with  a  few  hundred  pounds 
that  my  father  had  saved  up,  through  much  economy,  for  her 


138  KILMENY, 

whom  lie  so  dearly  loved.     My  own  small  fortune  of  £1800  vas 
invested  in  a  similar  way. 

These  matters  being  settled,  we  left  the  quiet  Buckinghamshire 
valley,  and  came  up  to  London.  There  being  no  use  in  taking  a 
house  for  us  two  solitary  creatures,  I  engaged  some  furnished 
rooms  in  a  house  that  looked  over  upon  Primrose-hill — a  situa- 
tion that  pleased  my  mother  much.  She  protested  against  the 
expense  of  the  rooms,  however,  until  I  pointed  out  to  her  that 
our  income  did  not  consist  exclusively  of  the  interest  on  these  in- 
vestments. Still,  she  begged  me  to  be  cautious,  and  was  nearly 
out  of  her  senses  when  Polly  Whistler  and  I,  laying  our  heads 
together,  invented  a  new  style  of  decoration  for  her  neck  and  the 
upper  part  of  her  dress,  and  had  the  same  composed  of  rather 
luxurious  materials.  She  positively  blushed  when  she  arraye( 
herself  in  these  things,  and  Polly  said  she  looked  like  Mary  Queen 
of  Scots  become  respectable. 

Polly  frequently  came  to  see  us.  My  mother  was  inclined  to 
be  afraid  of  her  at  first.  Polly's  blunt  and  ready  talk,  her  rather 
masculine  wit,  and  the  careless  manner  in  which  she  snapped  her 
fingers  at  a  good  many  social  observances,  were  calculated  to  im- 
press the  mind  of  the  simple  countrywoman  with  the  notion  that 
this  young  lady  was  rather  a  dangerous  person.  The  very  first 
evening  she  came  to  see  us,  our  talk  had  wandered  somehow  into 
reminiscences  of  old  dramas.  Incidentally  Polly  remarked,  quite 
calmly — 

"  Ah,  in  those  days  actresses  wore  clothes." 

"  Don't  they  now  ?"  said  my  mother,  simply. 

Polly  laughed;  and,  when  she  had  left,  my  mother  asked  with 
some  concern  what  sort  of  strange  young  wouu^u  that  was,  who 
»nade  very  odd  remarks,  and  was  so  carelessly  easv  in  her  manner, 
liy  and  by,  when  they  got  to  know  each  other  better,  my  mother 
liecame  rather  fond  of  the  girl  and  her  wild  speeches  and  pranks; 
but  there  was  never  at  this  time  perfect  intercommunion  between 
tiiem. 

Bright  and  clever  as  she  was,  Polly  had  not  a  grain  of  Jtnc.ssc 
in  her  composition.  Doubtless  the  principal  reason  that  she  came 
to  sec  us  so  often  was  that  she  found  in  our  house  a  refuge  from 
tlie  annoyances  of  her  own  home;  but  several  times  it  seemed  to 
me  that  she  came  merely  l)ecause  she  wanted  to  hear  of  Owen 
Ileatherleiijh.     SUc  never  had  the  skill  to  hide  her  interest  in 


IN    LONDON    AGAIN.  139 

him,  nor  the  address  to  conceal  the  satisfaction  slic  felt  in  hear- 
ing him  spoken  of.  Many  a  girl  would  have  assumed  a  tine  air 
of  carelessness,  and  made  believe  to  mention  his  name  accident- 
ally ;  but  Polly,  in  a  hesitating  way,  and  generally  with  her  eyes 
cast  down,  used  to  ask  me  how  Mr.  Heatherleigh  was,  and  how 
he  was  going  on  with  his  work. 

This  was  one  point  on  which  an  astonishing  change  had  come 
over  Heatherleigh.  He  had  returned  from  Brighton  before  his 
holiday  was  out ;  and  he  had  no  sooner  come  back  to  his  lodgings 
in  Granby  Street  than  he  set  to  work  in  quite  an  unusual  way  to 
get  his  pictures  forward.  The  transformation  surprised  me  all 
the  more  that  I  knew  he  had  not  spent  the  whole  of  the  money 
he  had  earned  before  going  down  to  Brighton.  There  was  even 
an  expression  of  purpose  on  his  face  that  I  had  never  previously 
noticed.  He  gave  up  his  indolent  lounging,  his  wanderings  about 
Regent's  Park,  his  lazy  forenoons  in  an  easy-chair  with  Ueberweg's 
"Logik"  or  Spencer's  "Social  Statics"  before  his  eyes.  He  even 
dressed  himself  with  a  trifle  more  care,  although  he  had  subsided 
into  utter  Boliemianism  of  habit. 

One  evening  Heatherleigh  was  sitting  with  me,  smoking  and 
chatting.  My  mother,  having  a  slight  headache,  had  retired  early ; 
and  we  two  were  left  by  ourselves.  She  had  scarcely  gone,  when 
a  maid-servant  came  to  the  door  and  announced  Miss  Whistler. 
Polly  walked  lightly  in,  expecting  to  see  my  mother;  but  when 
her  eyes  rested  on  Heatherleigh  she  involuntarily  retreated  a  step, 
and  stood  for  a  moment  silent  and  embarrassed.  He  had  risen 
from  his  chair  at  the  same  moment,  and  was  about  to  advance 
when  he  noticed  her  confusion,  and  paused  irresolutely,  while  I 
think  he  looked  as  confused  and  vexed  as  she  did. 

"  Mrs.  Ives  is  not  at  home  ?"  she  said  to  me. 

With  that  Heatherleigh  had  come  forward,  and  she  shook 
hands  with  him  formally  and  coldly. 

"  She  has  gone  up-stairs.  Won't  you  come  in  and  sit  down, 
Polly  ?" 

"  I  only  ran  up  in  passing,"  she  said,  hurriedly.  "  I  will  call 
some  other  evening.     Good-bye." 

So  she  went  out.  Heatherleigh  had  stood  in  the  middle  of  the 
room,  without  saying  a  word.  The  moment  she  had  left,  how- 
ever, he  instantly  opened  the  door  and  went  after  her. 

"  Polly,"  I  heard  him  say,  almost  roughly,  "  don't  be  stupid. 


140  KILMENY. 

Corae  back  at  once,  and  let  us  have  all  this  settled — let  me  under- 
stand what  you  mean  by  it." 

She  came  back  quite  submissively,  he  having  his  hand  on  Ik  r 
arm. 

"  Come,  Ted,"  he  said,  "  you  know  more  about  it  than  I  do. 
Get  her  to  tell  me  what  the  matter  is — why  she  should  fly  from 
me  as  if  I  were  an  ogre.  What  is  the  matter,  Polly — have  I  of- 
fended you  ?" 

"  No." 

"  Have  you  anything  to  find  fault  with  me  for?" 

"  No." 

"  Why,  then,  are  we  not  friends  as  we  used  to  be  ?"  he  said, 
with  some  wonder  in  his  eyes. 

I  saw  this  was  becoming  very  painful  for  the  girl,  and  I  said — 

"  Polly  can't  tell  you,  Heathcrleigh  ;  but  I  will — only  you  might 
know  it  yourself.  You  remember  the  night  Mrs.  W^histler  came 
up  to  your  studio  ?  She  talked  a  lot  of  nonsense  ;  and  Polly  won't 
understand  that  both  you  and  I  knew  it  was  nonsense." 

"  Is  that  all,  Polly  ?"  he  asked. 

"  No,"  she  said,  in  a  low  voice.  "  I  don't  care  whether  you 
believe  what  she  said  of  me  or  not.  But  you  were  good  enough 
to  make  me  a  sort  of  acquaintance  of  yours,  you  know ;  and 
after  you  have  seen  what — what  my  mother  is,  I  shouldn't  like 
to  continue — " 

"What  absurdity,  Pollv  !"  he  said,  going  forward  and  seizing 
her  hand  in  spite  of  lu'r  liorself.  "  Ted  hinted  something  like 
that  to  me,  and  I  scarcely  believed  him.  Why  should  your  moth- 
er iiiterfore  to  break  up  our  very  pleasant  friendship?  Why,  the 
evenings  that  we  three  have  spent  together,  when  1  look  back  on 
them,  seem  to  me  about  the  happiest  portion  of  my  life.  And  nei- 
ther of  you  two  ever  looked  very  miserable.  I  say,  what  has  your 
mother  to  do  with  it  ?  She  was  excited — and — and  said  some 
things — which — " 

"  My  mother  was  drunk,"  said  the  girl,  in  a  hard  voice,  draw- 
ing away  her  hand  from  his,  "  and  she  insulted  me  before  yon, 
and  she  insulted  you.  She  would  insult  you  again  if  she  saw 
you.  If  she  knew  that  I  went  up  to  your  studio,  to  sit  to  you, 
she  would  haunt  the  place,  and  persecute  me  and  aimoy  you. 
Do  you  wonder  that  I  do  not  wish  to  be  beholden  to  you  for  for- 
bearance shown  to  her?     I  liked  to  meet  you  both  well  enough 


IN    LONDON    AGAIN.  141 

when  I  was  independent  of  you ;  but  now  your  acquaintance 
would  be  a  sort  of  charity.  Is  that  plain  enough  ?  Oh,  you  don't 
know  what  my  mother  would  do.  Last  night  she  wanted  money — 
I  had  none.  She  said  if  I  did  not  get  her  money  she  would  go 
down  and  demand  it  from  Mr.  Layton ;  and  she  went  and  put  on 
her  bonnet.  What  was  I  to  do  ?  I  took  my  brooch  that  old  Mr. 
Herbert  gave  me  when  he  left  for  Italy,  and  went  out,  and — and 
pawned  it." 

The  girl  burst  into  tears. 

"  My  God,  that  this  should  be  !"  muttered  Heatherleigh  be- 
tween his  teeth. 

I  took  Polly  by  the  shoulders,  and  drew  her  into  a  chair,  and 
untied  her  bonnet. 

"  You  sha'n't  leave  this  house  this  night,"  I  said,  "  until  we 
come  to  some  better  arrangement.  We  will  have  a  bit  of  sup- 
per, in  the  old  way,  you  know,  and  a  talk  over  matters  ;  and 
surely  we  shall  be  able  to  devise  some  means  of  giving  you  your 
liberty." 

"  Well,"  said  Polly,  brightening  up,  "  I  am  safe  liere,  for  she 
doesn't  know  your  address.  That  is  why  I  come  to  your  house 
so  often.     But  how  are  you  going  to  give  me  my  escape  ?" 

"  We'll  see  about  supper  first,"  said  I. 

The  small  maid-servant  was  called  up  and  interrogated  about 
the  contents  of  the  larder.  Eventually  a  very  presentable  little 
supper  was  placed  on  the  table,  and  then  I  produced  a  bottle  of 
champagne. 

"  You  are  destroying  the  simple  and  appropriate  character  of 
our  suppers  of  old,"  said  Heatherleigh. 

"  But  on  this  occasion  it  is  with  a  purpose,  which  you  shall 
soon  learn." 

Don't  imagine,  however,  that  I  had  started  an  expensive  wine- 
cellar  out  of  our  modest  income.  Including  everything,  I  suppose 
our  annual  receipts  amounted  to  about  £250,  and  at  that  time, 
when  there  were  fewer  champagnes  sent  to  the  English  market,  a 
man  who,  on  an  income  of  £250  a  year,  offered  you  champagne, 
might  reasonably  have  been  asked  to  present  to  your  friends  the 
cost  of  a  post-mortem  examination.  My  champagne  came  to  me 
through  a  picture-dealer,  who  owed  me  a  small  sum  for  a  picture, 
and  who,  having  had  to  seize  his  customer's  goods  in  paymen* 
for  this  and  other  pictures,  paid  me  in  kind. 


142  KILMENY. 

So  we  sat  down  to  the  supper-table,  and  got  on  very  comfort- 
ably, although  Polly  would  not  drink  more  than  half  a  glass  of 
wine.  I  suppose  she  wished  to  show  that  she  had  not  inherited 
the  tastes  of  her  mother ;  but  the  poor  girl  need  not  have  im- 
agined that  we  wanted  any  proof.  However,  the  tiny  quantity 
was  just  sufficient  to  brighten  up  her  spirits. 

"  Is  your  mother  a  Londoner  ?"  asked  Heatherleigh,  of  Polly. 

"  No  ;  she  came  from  Greenwich  to  London." 

"  Has  she  friends  there  now  ?" 

"  Yes,  of  a  sort." 

"  Suppose  I  offered  her  a  sovereign  a  week  to  go  and  live  there, 
would  she  go  and  leave  you  unmolested  here?" 

"  And  pray,"  said  Polly,  proudly,  "  in  what  way  would  you 
have  me  explain  to  my  friends  that  you  were  supporting  my 
mother?" 

This  was  a  poser;  although  I  fancy  Heatherleigh,  under  his 
breath,  expressed  a  wish  about  her  friends  that  was  very  unchar- 
itable. 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Heatherleigh,  awkwardly.  "  I  didn't 
mean  that  I  should  pay  her  directly.  If  you  could  make  some 
such  arrangement  with  her,  I  should  help  you,  at  least,  to  make 
up  what  you  want." 

"  I  don't  think  you  know  what  you  are  saying,"  said  Polly, 
with  her  cheeks  flushed.     "  You  are  offering  me  money." 

"  You're  as  bad  as  Ted !"  said  Heatherleigh,  impatiently. 
"  You're  worse,  for  I  can't  bully  you  into  common-sense,  as  I  can 
him.  Here  are  we  three  people  sitting  together,  professing  to  be 
friends  with  each  other.  If  I  don't  mistake,  we  have  precious 
few  friends  elsewhere.  We  have  no  rich  relations  to  turn  to,  even 
if  we  cared  to  turn  to  them.  We  have  no  great  desire,  I  suppose, 
beyond  being  able  to  live  a  comfortable  life,  and  help  each  other, 
if  we  can.  Why  should  we  not  help  each  other?  When  you  are 
not  in  want  of  anything,  you  say,  '  Oh,  how  pleasant  it  is  to  have 
friends  you  can  rely  on  in  time  of  need!'  Then  the  time  of  need 
comes,  and  you  say,  '  No,  your  help  looks  too  nnich  like  charity.' 
Come,  Polly,  be  reasonable.  The  money  you  need  for  this  ])ur- 
pose  is  a  mere  trifle;  it  is  impossible  I  could  miss  it.  On  the 
other  hand,  look  at  the  happiness  the  sense  of  freedom  will  add 
to  your  life.  Look  at  the  many  pleasant  evenings,  like  this,  which 
we  might  all  have  togi'thcr." 


IN    LONDON    AGAIN.  143 

I  did  not  add  my  solicitations  to  liis,  because  I  knew  she  would 
not  consent. 

"  I  ouglit  not  to  leave  my  mother,  for  one  thing,"  she  said. 

This  was  but  a  poor  excuse ;  and  he  saw  that  it  was  an  excuse. 

"  You  are  ruining  your  mother,"  he  said,  impetuously.  "  You 
have  yielded  to  her  so  that  she  does  what  she  likes.  There 
is  no  control  being  exercised  over  her.  Now,  down  among  peo- 
ple she  knew,  she  might  be  induced  to  start  well,  and  continue 
well.  There  must  be  some  pride  in  her  which  would  make  her 
keep  herself  straight  before  her  neighbors.  You  are  doing  her 
harm,  instead  of  good,  at  present,  besides  destroying  your  own  life 
for  no  purpose  whatever.  Come,  won't  you  accept  this  trifling 
help  ?" 

"  No." 

"  Why  ?     There  must  be  some  other  reason." 

"  Well,  there  is,"  she  said,  provoked  into  frankness,  and  yet 
appearing  terribly  confused.  "Don't  you  see  that  men  can  give 
money  to  each  other ;  but  it  is  different  between  a  woman  and  a 
man — especially  when — when  they  are  not  in  the  same  position  ?" 

The  girl's  cheeks  were  burning ;  and  the  story  that  her  manner 
conveyed  was  so  clear  and  palpable  that  I  could  not  understand 
his  not  perceiving  it. 

He  was  puzzled,  at  least ;  and  he  saw  that  it  would  be  unadvis- 
abie  to  press  the  subject  just  then. 

"  At  all  events,"  he  said,  with  a  shrug,  "  if  you  must  be  hunted 
about,  we  can  still  meet  here,  unless  Ted  becomes  too  much  of  a 
gentleman  to  care  about  harboring  us  waifs." 

She  looked  up  at  him  with  some  surprise.  The  cool  way  in 
which  he  had  proposed  that  they  two  should  meet  there  was  in 
itself  peculiar.  Heatherleigh  seemed  to  be  in  a  fog,  and  was 
blundering  about  at  random. 

"  Yes,"  said  Polly,  "  Mrs.  Ives  has  been  very  kind  in  asking  me 
to  come  here.     But  I  must  go  now — it  must  be  nearly  eleven." 

"  First,  though,"  I  said,  "  you  must  see  what  I  have  got  to 
show  you.  Didn't  I  say  that  I  had  a  design  upon  you  ?  I  have 
dazed  the  intellect  of  my  critics  with  wine ;  I  have  bribed  them 
with  meat  and  with  drink ;  and  now — I  will  show  them  my  pict- 


144  KILMENY. 


CHAPTER  XVn. 

KILMENY. 

Do  you  know  the  legend  of  Freir,  the  sun-god,  who,  looking 
from  the  heights  of  Illidskialf  over  all  the  world,  let  his  eyes  fall 
upon  Jotuuheini,  the  land  of  the  giants,  and  there  saw  the  maiden 
Gerda,  near  the  house  of  Gymir,  her  father?  She  was  so  fair  and 
comely  that  the  white  beauty  of  her  arms  caused  the  seas  to  shim- 
mer in  light ;  and  Freir  went  home  sick  at  heart  for  love  of  her. 
Then  he  called  to  him  his  servant  Skiriiir,  and  told  him  all  his 
woes ;  and  Skirnir,  demanding  from  him  his  swift  horse,  that 
could  bear  him  through  flames,  and  his  magical  sword,  set  out 
for  Jotunheim,  to  carry  the  message  of  his  master's  love.  Gyjuir's 
house  he  finds  guarded  by  furious  bloodhounds,  and  by  a  keeper, 
who  asks  Skirnir  if  he  is  near  death  or  already  dead.  But  tlie 
beautiful  Gerda  wonders  what  the  strange  noises  portend,  and 
sends  her  maiden  to  invite  the  messenger  in  and  give  him  of  the 
soft  mead.  Skirnir  tells  the  story  of  his  master's  pain  ;  offers 
her  presents,  and  threatens  her  with  divers  troubles  if  she  re- 
fuse; whereupon  Gymir's  godlike  daughter  inclines  a  gracious 
ear,  and  promises  to  wed  the  son  of  Niordr  after  nine  nights 
have  passed. 

This  was  the  story  I  thought  of,  when  I  strolled  around  the 
Serpentine  one  misty  evening,  wondering  what  subject  I  should 
take  for  a  picture.  You  know,  tlie  German  commentators  have 
got  strange  meanings  out  of  this  mystic  story  of  the  Elder  Edila ; 
and  Freir,  acc<n'ding  to  them,  being  the  sun-god,  and  the  maiden 
Gerda  the  auroral  light  whose  beauty  caused  the  seas  to  shine, 
might  not  the  messenger  be  the  pale  dawn,  come  to  woo  her  in 
the  ghostly  regions  of  Jotunlieim  ?  But  the  subject  was  too  big 
anil  vague ;  and  I  gave  it  up  in  despair. 

Then  1  bethought  me  of  an  old  ballad,  in  which  a  king's 
daughter  is  claimed  by  the  skipj)er  of  a  vessel  as  his  reward  for 
steering  her  fatlier  and  his  knights  safely  through  a  storm.  Hut 
liow  t<j  paint  the  mist  of  sea-foam  around  the  girl  and  her  lover 


KILMENY.  145 

— liow  to  fill  the  picture  with  tlie  blackness  of  the  north  wind 
und  the  motion  of  rain  and  wave  and  cloud — with  here  and  there 
a  fear-stricken  face — with  the  scornful  laugh  of  the  skipper,  and 
the  clinging,  terrified  love  of  his  bride  ?  That,  too,  I  gave  up.  I 
was  too  familiar  with  the  moods  of  the  sea  to  dare  the  attempt  at 
painting  them. 

Yet  I  instinctively  turned  to  the  North  for  the  subject  I  want- 
ed— to  the  region  of  wind  and  mist,  of  legendary  murmurs  that 
still  reach  us,  full  of  a  passionate  and  tragic  pathos.  Should  it 
be  the  story  of  young  Aikin  and  the  Lady  Margaret  ?  or  of  how 
Gil  Morioe,  with  the  yellow  hair,  was  slain  ?  or  of  how  young 
Hynde  Horn  stole  his  bride  ?  or  of  how  the  Earl  of  Mar's  daugh- 
ter was  carried  off  by  her  lover  ?  One  or  two  of  these  I  did  try, 
to  no  purpose.  The  result  was  bare  and  tawdry — wanting  that 
very  glamour  and  vagueness  which  fascinate  one  in  the  old  legends. 
Their  strong  and  powerful  colors  appear  to  us,  as  it  were,  through 
a  mist  of  rain ;  you  know  that  the  Earl  of  Mar's  daughter  wears 
a  glowing  scarlet  cloak,  but  the  color  of  it  glimmers  from  the 
other  side  of  this  veil,  and  the  beauty  of  her  face  is  almost  with- 
out outline. 

At  last,  my  erratic  and  ambitious  notions  had  to  make  a  com- 
promise with  my  disproportionate  skill ;  and  I  chose  as  a  subject 
the  simple  figure  of  Kilmeny,  when  she  came  home  "  late,  late  in 
the  gloaming." 

Need  I  say  how  many  times  I  attempted  to  put  upon  canvas 
some  faint  reflection  of  the  strange  and  mystic  beauty  of  the 
poem  ?  After  innumerable  trials,  I  found  that  I  was  beginning 
with  too  great  an  effort.  In  my  anxiety  to  have  something  wist- 
ful and  wonderful  about  Kilmeny's  face,  I  was  forgetting  that  the 
very  beauty  of  the  conception  lay  in  its  wavering,  uncertain,  shad- 
owy character.  To  have  painted  her  with  an  aureole  of  light 
around  her  face  would  have  made  Kilmeny  a  fairy,  not  a  wonder- 
stricken  girl,  who  had  come  home  "  to  see  the  friends  she  had 
left  in  her  own  countrye."  The  magic  of  Kilmeny's  presence, 
that  charmed  all  things  around  her,  was  not  the  magic  of  a  nec- 
romancer nor  the  witchery  of  a  wild  spirit.     For 

.  .  .  "Oh,  her  beauty  was  fair  to  see. 
But  still  and  steadfast  was  her  ee ; 
Such  beauty  bard  may  never  declare, 
For  there  was  no  pride  nor  passion  there ; 


146  KILMENY. 

And  the  soft  desire  of  maiden's  een 
In  that  niikl  face  could  never  be  seen." 

With  such  a  conception  before  him,  how  could  any  mortal  man 
be  satisfied  by  any  possible  transference  of  it  into  pigments  ?  Be- 
sides, I  was  struggling  with  innumerable  other  difficulties,  which 
it  would  be  tedious  to  mention.  Only  he  who  has  striven  to  effect 
some  artistic  work  with  an  insufficient  acquaintance  with  techni- 
cal means  can  understand  what  I  suffered  then. 

However,  I  resolved  to  finish  a  sketch  of  the  picture  first ;  and 
here  at  once  I  found  some  freedom.  I  was  not  so  afraid  of  the 
result ;  and  in  time  I  produced  a  sort  of  rough  draft  of  what  I 
hoped  the  picture  would  be.  It  was  this  sketch  which  I  now 
brought  in  to  show  Heatherleigli  and  Polly  Whistler.  My  gay- 
ety  had  been  only  feigned.  I  was  as  frightened  to  show  them 
this  rude  effort  as  though  I  had  been  an  apprentice  to  Michael 
Angelo,  and  had  finished  my  first  commission.  I  brought  down 
my  easel  with  it,  placed  the  picture,  and  stepped  back  to  Polly's 
side,  not  daring  to  utter  a  word,  even  of  apology. 

She  looked  at  it  for  a  moment,  and  then  she  placed  her  hand 
on  my  arm. 

"  Oh,  Ted  !  did  you  do  that  ?"  she  said,  in  a  low  voice. 

I  drank  in  those  words ;  for  what  they  implied  was  music  to 
me.  Yet  she  stood  there,  looking  strangely  at  the  picture ;  and  1 
could  not  help,  even  then,  daring  to  ho|)e  that  some  other  one, 
whom  I  had  often  thought  of  in  painting  the  [licture,  would  look 
at  it  with  the  same  expression  that  was  now  visible  in  Polly's 
kindly  eyes. 

"  It  is  like  a  dream,"  she  said,  slowly,  "  and  yet  not  a  dream, 
for  it  makes  one  feel  cold.  Where  did  you  see  that  strange  face, 
Ted  ?" 

'*  I  know,"  said  Heatherleigli,  curtly. 

He  looked  at  the  picture  for  a  long  time,  and  then  he  said, 
rather  absently — 

"  You  must  not  work  for  me  any  more,  Ted." 

"  Why  ?" 

"  Because  you  have  beaten  me  in  the  race.  Or,  rather,  there 
was  no  race:   1  gave  u]»  that  notion  long  ago." 

There  are  some  compliments  you  can  laugh  off;  this  was  not 
one  of  them.  There  was  a  cfrtaiii  sadness  in  ilcatlK  rleigirs  tone 
that  showed  he  was  thinking  of  his  own  career,  and  of  its  hope- 


KILMENY,  147 

less  future.  I  think  he  knew  lie  could  never  be  a  great  artist ; 
but  it  was  seldom,  indeed,  that  this  conviction  seemed  to  weigh 
upon  him. 

"  I  did  not  think  you  capable  of  work  like  that,"  he  said. 
"  You  must  waste  no  more  of  your  time  in  my  manufactory. 
You  must  make  way  for  yourself.  I  will  get  this  picture  sold 
for  you." 

"  I  don't  wish  to  sell  it.  I  mean  to  paint  from  it  a  larger  pict- 
ure for — " 

"  The  Academy  ?  Yes ;  I  thought  so.  Well,  you  will  make 
an  enormous  blunder  if  you  try  to  elaborate  a  subject  like  that. 
I  know  you  will.  Let  the  picture  stand  as  it  is — sell  it  to  some 
private  gentleman — and  get  the  loan  of  it  again  for  the  Academy. 
Don't  you  think  so,  Polly  ?" 

"  If  he  touches  it  he  will  spoil  it.  But  where  did  you  get  that 
face,  Ted?" 

"  I  know,"  said  Heatherleigh,  again. 

*'  She  doesn't  live  in  Hampstead  Road  ?"  said  Polly,  with  a  smile. 
"  If  she  does,  I  may  shut  up  my  shop." 

"  No,  she  doesn't  live  in  Hampstead  Road,"  he  said,  "  and  she 
is  not  likely  to  become  a  rival  of  yours,  Polly.  Perhaps,  if  you 
saw  herself,  you  would  say  that  a  good  deal  of  that  strange,  dream- 
like look  is  Ted's  own  creation.  And  yet  she  is  very  pretty — the 
Kilmeny  I  speak  of." 

"You  both  know  her?"  cried  Polly,  with  a  sudden  inspiration. 
"  Why,  it  must  be  Bonnie  Lesley  !" 

"  No,"  said  Heatherleigh,  dryly  ;  and  there  was  nothing  further 
said  upon  that  point. 

Yet  I  was  greatly  dismayed  and  vexed  that  he  should  see  a  like- 
ness which  I  had  vainly  striven  to  convince  myself  did  not  exist. 
I  have  long  ago  been  forgiven  by  the  original  of  my  Kilmeny  for 
having  travestied  her  upon  canvas ;  and  the  matter  is  of  small  im- 
portance now  ;  but  this  I  must  say,  that  I  never  dreamed  of  copy- 
ing her  perfect  features  when  I  sketched  the  picture.  I  thought 
of  the  most  beautiful  creature  I  knew ;  and  her  face  and  eyes,  un- 
consciously to  myself,  began  to  grow  out  of  the  canvas.  Heath- 
erleigh's  recognition  was  the  first  token  I  received  that  others 
were  likely  to  accuse  me  of  attempting  what  I  never  consciously 
would  have  dared  to  attempt. 

"  I  must  go,"  said  Polly,  at  length.     "  No,  neither  of  you  shall 


148  KILMENY. 

come  with  me.  I  do  not  wish  to  be  prevented  from  seeing  you 
again." 

So  she  went  off  alone.  But  she  had  scarcely  got  out  of  the 
house  when  Heatherleigh  rose  and  took  his  hat. 

"  We  must  see  that  she  gets  home  safe,  Ted.  Let's  follow  her 
at  a  distance." 

This  we  did ;  nor  was  Polly  ever  aware  of  our  dogging  her 
footsteps  all  the  way  home.  When  she  had  finally  disappeared, 
Heatherleigh  seemed  to  breathe  more  freely,  and  he  said,  as  we 
turned  away — 

"  There  is  a  very  good  girl,  if  ever  one  lived." 

"  True  for  you,"  said  I. 

"  We  must  find  some  means  of  getting  her  out  of  the  clutches 
of  that  wretched  woman.  It  is  unbearable  that  a  girl  like  her 
should  suffer  such  martyrdom ;  and  as  for  her  notions  of  filial 
duty,  she  must  abandon  what  is  romance  or  folly  or  madness." 

"  She  has  no  notions  of  the  kind,"  said  I.  "  The  girl  has  too 
much  common-sense  to  think  that  she  ouyht  to  waste  her  life  in 
living  with  an  irreclaimable  old  idiot,  wlio  only  behaves  the  worse 
because  of  her  daughter's  forbearance  and  kirdness." 

"  Then  why  did  she  refuse  to  accept  my  offer  ?" 

"  How  should  I  know  ?" 

Of  course,  I  did  know  ;  but  I  could  scarcely  persuade  myself 
that  he  was  not  assuming  ignorance  in  order  to  fish  for  confirma- 
tion of  liis  suspicions.  For  some  time  we  walked  on  in  silence, 
until  we  had  got  near  the  tall  railings  of  Regent's  Park  again.  It 
was  a  clear  starlight  night. 

"  Heatherleigh,"  said  I,  "  I  should  be  sorry  to  give  up  working 
with  you,  as  you  suggested — perhaps  by  way  of  compliment — so 
long  as  I  can  be  of  any  service  to  you.  You  know  how  I  am  in- 
debted to  you.  I  never  liope  to  repay  you ;  but  I  should  con- 
sider it  rather  despicable  of  me  to  fiy  off  from  our  bargain  the 
moment  I  saw  I  might  better  myself  somewhat." 

"  But  there  is  another  reason,"  said  he.  "  First  and  foremost, 
if  you  can  jiaint  |>icturi's  liki'  that  Kilnieny  it  would  be  monstrous 
that  you  should  waste  your  time  in  drudgery.  I  tell  you,  Lewi- 
son  could  get  you  a  dozen  men  to-morrow  who  would  buy  the 
picture  eagerly." 

"  Do  you  think  any  one  would  recognize  the  likeness  that  you 
recognized  ?" 


KILMENY.  149 

"  Certainly." 

"  Then  I  must  alter  the  face  before  any  one  else  sees  it." 

"  You'll  be  a  fool  if  you  do.  However,  here  is  the  other  rea- 
son why  you  should  hive  off.  I  was  selfishly  glad  of  your  assist- 
ance, because  it  allowed  me  to  have  plenty  of  ease  and  laziness. 
Now,  I  mean  to  go  in  for  making  some  little  sum  of  money  to 
keep  by  me,  and  I  shall  work  as  much  as  I  can,  and  get  as  much 
money  as  I  can  for  the  work.     You  understand  ?" 

"  I  am  heartily  glad  to  hear  it." 

'*  Well,  you  sec,"  he  continued,  apologetically,  "  there  is  no  say- 
ing what  might  happen  to  a  fellow  like  me,  quite  unprepared  for 
any  emergency.  I  might  want  to  assist  a  friend  in  distress,  or  I 
might  take  some  whim  in  my  head  that  needed  money;  and 
where  should  I  be  ?" 

"  Quite  true." 

"  Besides,  I  have  been  living  a  purposeless  sort  of  life — an  aim- 
less, lotos  -  eating,  hedgehog  sort  of  existence,  that  is  pleasant 
enough  at  the  time,  but  not  very  satisfactory  to  look  back 
upon." 

"  That  is  also  true." 

"  So  I  mean  to  pull  myself  together  a  bit,  and  see  what  I  can 
do.  Mind  you,  I  have  no  intention  of  satisfying  any  ambition. 
That  has  been  knocked  out  of  me  long  ago.  When  I  cut  my 
family,  and  threw  myself  upon  the  world  to  fight  my  own  way,  I 
fancied  that  I  had  in  me  that  which  would  make  me  richer  in  the 
end.  I  fancied  that  I  could  cope  with  all  these  crushing  condi- 
tions that  hem  in  a  poor  man,  who  has  no  parental  fortune  to 
back  him,  and  no  rich  relations  to  take  him  by  the  arm,  and  lead 
him  into  good  society,  and  forward  his  interests  and  chances  in 
life.  I  was  going  to  do  for  myself  what  other  men  get  done  for 
them.  I  was  going  to  fight  the  world  unaided  and  single-handed. 
Now  I  made  two  mistakes.  In  the  first  place,  it  was  a  blunder 
to  think  I  could  do  so,  even  if  I  had  had  the  powers  I  fancied  1 
possessed ;  and  the  notion  that  I  had  them  was  a  second  blunder. 
You  see,  I  wanted  to  open  the  big  oyster  without  a  knife.  I  fail- 
ed. I  did  my  best ;  but  when  I  found  my  best  was  ludicrously 
inadequate,  I  did  not  become  misanthropic.  I  took  the  matter 
quietly ;  and  in  a  short  time  had  acquired  suflBcient  wisdom  to 
laugh  at  my  own  folly.  I  am  not  going  to  engage  the  world  any 
more.     Society  and  its  conditions  are  too  strong  for  me.     I  give 


150  KILMENY. 

in.  Perhaps  I  have  no  s;reat  ambition  now  to  fionre  as  an  impor- 
tant person  at  swell  lionses,  in  the  park,  at  conversaziones,  and  so 
forth.  Perhaps  1  don't  care  to  compete  for  the  favor  of  elderly 
ladies,  or  young  ones  either,  with  this  poor  lad  whose  father  has 
left  him  a  small  brain,  a  title,  and  an  encumbered  estate,  or  that 
equally  dull  lad  whose  father  lias  left  him  £20,000  a  year,  and  the 
sentiments  and  sympathies  of  a  hostler.  I  am  very  well  satisfied 
with  my  ill-fortune.  But  this  notion  of  mine,  which  I  mention  to 
vou,  is  only  a  precaution  to  keep  my  present  position  safe  for  me. 
That  is  all.  If  you  limit  your  aims  sufficiently,  you  can  always 
be  successful ;  and  I  think  I  shall  be  able  to  get  the  little  nest- 
egg  I  want." 

"  I  know  you  will,"  I  said. 

We  had  reached  the  door  of  my  lodgings.  As  I  stood  on  the 
steps,  and  shook  hands  with  him,  I  said — 

"  After  all,  I  think  I  must  tell  you  a  secret  which  you  ought  to 
have  discovered  for  yourself.  Do  you  know  why  Polly  would 
never  go  near  you  after  that  scene  with  her  mother?" 

"  Well,  I  couldn't  understand  the  reasons  she  and  you  ad- 
vanced." 

"  Do  you  know  why  she  wanted  to  go  away  when  she  saw  you 
were  here  to-night?" 

"  No." 

"  Or  why  she  refused  to  accept  the  money  ?" 

"  No." 

"  Because,  then,  as  I  believe,  the  girl  is  as  deeply  in  love  with 
you  as  ever  a  girl  was  with  a  man.  There,  you  may  think  over  that 
at  your  leisure.     Good-night !" 

His  back  was  turned  to  the  lamplight,  so  that  I  could  not  see 
what  expression  his  face  bore.  But  lie  did  not  speak  a  word : 
and  so  I  left  him,  and  went  inside. 


THE    WHITK    DOVES.  151 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

THE     WHITE     DOVES. 

"  That  wur  a  rare  good  shot,  sir,  that  wur.  You  couldn't  ha' 
gone  nearer  her  without  'itting  of  her.  Look  at  the  turnip-blades 
thear,  where  she  wur  a  sitting,  all  riddled  wi'  the  shot." 

Heatherleigh  and  I  looked  over  the  hedge,  and  saw  before  us, 
standing  in  the  middle  of  a  field  of  turnips,  a  very  big  and  stout 
farmer,  who  was  mopping  a  roseate  face  with  a  red  pocket-hand- 
kerchief, while  he  grumbled  out  his  wrath  over  some  annoyance. 
This  was  Mr.  Stephen  Toomer,  who  had  taken  my  uncle's  farm, 
and  was  now  engaged  in  shooting  over  it.  Toomer  was  a  tall 
and  corpulent  man,  with  a  thick  neck,  a  bullet  head,  a  quick  tem- 
per, and  a  round,  jolly  red  face,  which  had  two  black  beads  of 
eyes,  and  was  surmounted  by  short-cropped  black  hair.  He  was 
a  stupid,  well-meaning,  irascible  man,  who  was  very  fond  of  shoot- 
ing, and  could  not  shoot  a  bit.  My  uncle,  when  angry  at  Too- 
mer's  missing  some  easy  shot,  used  to  say  to  him — 

"  I'm  darned  if  you  ain't  the  biggest  fool  I  know.  Why  doan't 
ye  let  the  shootin'  over  your  farm  to  some  mahn  as  '11  hit  some- 
thing, and  you  go  and  fire  off  your  powder  and  shot  at  butter- 
flies and  bees?  They'd  do  ye  quite  as  well,  and  you  might  kill 
some  on  'em  sometimes." 

Toomer  was  accompanied  on  this  occasion  by  his  bailiff,  who 
also  acted  as  his  gamekeeper,  and  told  a  hundred  lies  an  hour  in 
order  to  excuse  his  master's  missing  everything  in  the  shape  of 
partridge,  hare,  or  rabbit  that  came  in  his  way.  The  fabulous 
flakes  of  fur  he  found  about  the  turnip-blades,  the  imaginary 
feathers  that  came  floating  down  from  the  tail  of  a  pheasant  that 
was  thirty  yards  out  of  shot  before  Toomer  fired,  the  fictitious 
"  warmers"  that  perfectly  untouched  partridges  were  supposed  to 
carry  away  with  them,  did  credit  to  old  Kinch's  imagination  and 
wit.  But  when  his  master,  in  one  of  his  rare  fits  of  generosity, 
offered  some  neighbor  a  day's  shooting,  Kinch  made  up  for  his 
flattery  by  discharging  himself  of  all  his  accumulated  sarcasm 


152  KILMENY. 

upon  the  new-comer.  Then  there  were  no  flakes  of  fur  or  feathers 
found.  On  the  contrary,  the  new-comer  had  "  never  gone  a-nigh 
'em."  "  What  wur  the  use  o'  shooting  at  hirds  i'  tlie  next  parish  V 
"  Why,  that  hare  wur  through  the  'edge  afore  ye  fired ;"  and 
so  on. 

"Ah,  how  be  ye,  Mahster  Ives?"  said  Stephen  Toomer,  coming 
over  to  the  hedge  to  shake  hands  with  me,  while  he  nodded  fa- 
miHarly  to  Heatherleigh. 

"  Pretty  well.  My  friend  and  I  have  come  down  here  for  a 
week  or  two — " 

"  For  the  shootin'  ?"  he  said,  quickly,  obviously  fearing  that  we 
were  going  to  disturb  his  interesting  and  bloodless  pastime  by 
demanding  permission  to  accompany  him. 

'*  No,  not  at  all.  We  want  you,  though,  to  let  us  have  the  oc- 
cupation of  the  Major's  house." 

"  Law,  you  doan't  mean  thaht !"  ho  said,  opening  his  eyes. 

"  Yes  we  do,  if  you  don't  mind." 

Toomer  had  inherited  the  guardiansliip  of  the  haunted  house; 
and  he  was  not  the  sort  of  man  to  think  of  interfering  with  its 
ghostly  immunity  from  occupants. 

"I  mind!  Of  course  I  don't  mind;  but  ye  cahn't  mean  to 
stay  in  that  'ouse  ?  Why  not  come  up  'ere  and  stay  in  your  own 
uncle's  'ouse,  as  you  wur  accustomed  to?  I'll  make  ye  as  com- 
fortable as  may  be.  Folks  say  as  you  are  a  painter  like,  and 
mayhap — " 

"  That's  it.  My  friend  and  I  want  one  or  two  big  empty  rooms, 
with  plenty  of  light  in  them — just  like  those  down  at  the  Major's. 
We've  come  up  to  see  if  Mrs.  Toomer  could  kindly  spare  us  a 
couple  of  mattresses — 1(»  be  laid  on  the  floor,  you  know — and  a 
chair  or  two,  and  a  table.  If  she  will  oblige  us  so  far,  we  have 
engaged  old  Mother  Ilsley  to  come  and  make  our  breakfast  for 
us—" 

"  She  woan't  stay  in  that  'ouse !"  said  Toomer,  decisively. 

"No;  she  will  go  back  to  Missenden  at  night.  You  see,  we 
want  a  house  that  is  ne;irer  liurnhain  tlian  tliis  is  (tliauking  you 
for  the  offer),  and  besides  we  are  curious  to  know  whether  these 
stories  about  the  place  are  true." 

Toomer  looked  from  one  to  the  other  of  tis,  and  then  found 
rcfiig(!  in  calling  for  his  bailiff,  to  whom  h(>,  explained  the  propo- 
sal, with  iiiaiiy  an  oiniuuiis  shake  nf  tiie  h(>ad. 


THE    WHITE    DOVES.  153 

"  If  ye  do  mean  it,"  said  he  at  last,  speaking  despondently,  as 
if  we  were  already  the  victims  of  our  rashness,  "  my  missus  '11  do 
what  she  can  to  make  the  plaace  comfortable ;  but  I  'ope  as  ye'll 
both  think  better  on  it,  and  not  make  light  o'  things  as  'ave  puz- 
zled older  'eads  than  yourn." 

"  It's  a  temptin'  o'  Providence,"  said  Kinch,  solemnly.  "  Not 
as  Mr.  Toomer  or  me  ud  believe  in  ghost-stories  and  all  thaht  'ere 
nonsense — " 

"  Certainly  not,"  said  the  master,  with  some  dignity. 

"  But  there's  things  around  as  we  doan't  see  and  we  doan't  un- 
derstand, and  I  be  for  lettin'  'em  alone,  I  be." 

"  Quite  right,  too,"  said  the  master,  who  was  glad  to  have  this 
wholesome  argument  urged  in  his  defence. 

"  Then  you'll  let  us  have  these  things  ?  Tliank  you.  And  per- 
haps you'd  kindly  send  with  them  some  old  gun  or  other,  just 
that  we  may  have  a  shot  at  any  stray  visitor,  you  understand  ?  I 
don't  know  what  sort  of  pointer  is  best  for  ghosts — " 

"  Your  poor  uncle  Avur  a  very  bold  mahn  in  talking  about  them 
things ;  but  he  never  ivent  nigh  that  ^ouse  after  nightfall,^''  said 
Toomer,  significantly.     "  He  wur  afeared  o'  nothin' — " 

"And  he's  found  out  'is  mistake,"  edged  in  Kinch,  spitefully. 

"  I  say,  he  wur  afeared  o'  nothin',  and  why  didn't  he  go  a-nigh 
that  'ouse  arter  nightfall — that's  what  I  wahnt  to  know  ?  How- 
sever,  you'll  get  the  bits  o'  things,  and  I'll  send  ye  down  the  gun 
as  Kinch  uses  for  them  sparrers  that  hev  been  hawful  this  yur. 
They're  the  mischievousest  things,  them  sparrers.  I'm  thinkin'  it 
would  puzzle  the  pahrson,  for  all  he  says,  to  find  out  what  they 
were  made  for." 

"  Mother  Ilsley  will  come  over  and  see  about  these  things  you 
have  so  kindly  promised  us.  Meanwhile,  we're  going  on  to  Burn- 
ham  House." 

"To  visit  Miss  Hester,  belike?" 

"  No.     To  do  some  work  at  the  House." 

"  Eh !  I  be  rare  glad  to  'ear  it,"  said  Stephen.  '*  It's  what  I've 
allays  said  to  my  missus,  as  there  wur  one  thing  wrong  about 
Burnham  'Ouse ;  and  that's  the  color  of  the  front,  as  you  see  it 
from  the  havenue.  It's  too  yallow,  that's  what  I  say — a  deal  too 
yallow ;  and  I  be  glad  to  'ear  as  you  and  your  friend  'ave  come 
down  to  freshen  the  plaace  up  a  bit ;  and  I  do  hope  as  you'll  alter 
that  yallow." 

G3 


154  KILMENY. 

"  We  mean  to  paint  the  inside  of  the  House  first,"  said  Heather- 
leigh,  gravely. 

"  Well  and  good ;  well  and  good,"  said  Mr.  Tooiner.  "  I  doan't 
pretend  to  know  any  niahn's  business  but  my  own ;  but  what  I 
says  is  as  the  front's  too  yallow,  and  I'll  hold  by  thaht — " 

"  I've  no  doubt  it  is,"  said  Heatherleigh. 

"  And  I  'ope  as  you  and  Mahster  Ives  '11  put  on  another  color." 

"  We'll  do  our  best.     Good-morning  !" 

AVe  had  come  down  to  paint  some  portions  of  Burnham  House, 
although  we  did  not  mean  to  commence,  as  Stephen  Toomer  sug- 
gested, by  whitewashing  the  front  walls.  Miss  Burnham  had  gone 
up  to  town  and  seen  Heatherleigh  about  the  panelling  of  the  pil- 
lars, and  had  arranged  with  him  to  have  them  filled  with  appro- 
priate subjects.  Heatherleigh,  in  his  new-born  zeal  for  work,  had 
gladly  accepted  the  commission,  and  also  undertook  to  secure  my 
co-operation.  The  reader  may  remember  that  I  had  professed 
myself  willing  to  do  what  I  could  in  that  way,  on  certain  terms. 
I  received  a  brief  note  from  Miss  Burnham,  saying  she  hoped  I 
would  accompany  Mr.  Heatherleigh,  and  do  part  of  the  work,  on 
any  terms  I  chose  to  name.  The  latter  words  were  underlined ; 
and  I  went  down  into  Buckinghamshire  rejoicing. 

"  What  a  fine  country  it  is  about  here  !"  said  Heatherleigh,  as 
we  descended  the  hill,  after  leaving  Toomer  pottering  among  his 
turnips,  and  got  into  the  valley  that  lies  underneath  Burnham. 
"  It  was  a  good  notion  to  take  that  haunted  house,  as  we  ought 
to  liave  an  occasional  holiday  for  sketching.  But  what  on  earth 
did  you  want  with  a  gun  ?" 

"  Lest  some  tramps  should  hear  of  our  being  there,  and  prowl 
about  the  place  to  steal.  I  don't  suppo.se  there  is  a  lock  or  bolt 
or  bar  in  the  house ;  but  when  they  know  we  have  a  gun  in  the 
room,  they  will  be  chary  of  coming  near." 

"  I  thought,  perhaps,  you  meant  to  have  a  shot  at  the  evil 
spirits." 

"  You  never  see  them  ;  you  only  hear  them.  You  will  hear  the 
sound  of  wheels  being  driven  up  to  the  house  in  the  middle  of 
the  night;  and  if  you  open  the  door  suddenly  you  will  hear 
bursts  of  laughter  all  around,  mocking  you  for  your  trouble. 
Sometimes  it  is  the  sound  of  a  horseman  galloping  past  that  you 
hear,  though  where  the  horseman  gallops  to  is  a  mystery,  as  the 
place  is  surrounded  by  trees,     Sometimes  the  people  have  seen  a 


THE    WHITE    DOVES.  155 

black  dog  dashing  past,  without  making  any  noise.  Sometimes 
it  is  a  woman  singing  a  song,  apparently  hushing  a  baby  to  sleep ; 
and  sometimes  it  is  the  deep  voice  of  men,  cursing  at  each  other. 
But  whenever  you  attempt  to  surprise  them  there  is  instant  si- 
lence, and  then  the  strange  laughter  all  around  in  the  air." 

"  Comfortable,  exceedingly." 

"  Even  the  tramps  who  go  about  are  afraid  to  use  the  empty 
rooms,  into  which  they  could  easily  get.  But  here  we  are  at 
Burnham  ;  and  what  do  you  think  of  that  for  a  view  ?" 

We  were  in  front  of  the  broad  and  stately  avenue  that  led  up 
between  giant  rows  of  Spanish  chestnuts  to  the  front  of  Burnham 
House.  As  we  ascended  the  avenue  the  muUioned  windows  of 
the  gray  old  building  became  plainer,  the  spire  of  the  small 
church  was  visible  through  the  trees,  and  behind  us  lay  a  long 
prospect  down  the  valley  and  up  over  the  hills,  which  lay  steeped 
in  the  soft,  warm  glow  of  autumn  sunlight.  There  was  an  au- 
tumn haze,  too,  lying  over  the  olive-green  of  the  distant  woods, 
and  round  about  the  great  trunks  of  the  trees  near  at  hand — a  soft, 
thin,  gray  veil  that  caused  the  yellow  stubble-fields,  the  red  fallow, 
the  far-off  brown-green  beech-woods,  and  the  gray-and-white  chalk 
hills  to  become  faint  and  visionary  in  the  heat,  rendering  their 
various  hues  pale  and  ethereal,  and  laying,  as  it  were,  a  gossamer- 
net  of  frail  and  fairy-like  texture  over  the  still,  beautiful  landscape. 
The  glory  of  Buckinghamshire  is  its  beech-woods,  that  assume, 
later  in  autumn,  an  indescribable  intensity  of  color;  but  it  seems 
to  me  that  they  should  be  seen  with  this  silvery  harvest  haze 
hanging  over  them,  through  which  the  distant  hills,  covered  with 
these  forests  of  beeches,  actually  shimmer  in  pale  rose-color  and 
gold. 

We  went  up  to  Burnham ;  and  the  lady  of  Burnham — how 
slight  and  small  she  looked  in  front  of  the  big  house  ! — was  stand- 
ing on  the  steps,  and  came  forward  to  meet  us. 

"  How  wrong  of  you,"  she  said  to  Heatherleigh,  with  a  bright 
smile,  "  not  to  let  me  know  when  you  were  coming,  and  I  should 
have  sent  over  for  you." 

With  that  she  came  over  and  shook  hands  with  me,  saying 
simply, 

"  I  am  very  glad  you  have  come." 

Heatherleigh  explained  to  her  that  we  had  stopped  at  Wycombe 
on  the  previous  evening  in  order  to  enjoy  the  walk  over  on  that 


156  KILMENY, 

morning ;  and  that  our  traps  would  be  sent  over  from  that  an- 
cient town  some  time  during  the  day. 

"  Your  rooms  have  been  prepared  for  you ;  and  Madame  La- 
boureau  has  done  you  the  honor  of  gathering  some  flowers  for 
you  with  her  own  hand.     Her  husband  was  an  artist." 

Madame  Laboureau — an  elderly  small  French  lady  who  had  ac- 
companied Miss  Burnham  on  her  retuin  from  France,  and  been 
licr  official  companion  ever  since — now  came  forward,  and  begged 
to  know,  with  many  expressions  of  dramatic  sympathy,  how  my 
mother  bore  her  loss,  and  how  she  was  reconciling  herself  to  Lon- 
don. 

"  But,  with  your  permission,"  said  Heatherleigh  to  Miss  Burn- 
ham,  "  we  mean  to  stay  at  some  empty  house  near  here,  which  we 
understand  is  occasionally  favored  by  ghostly  visitors.  Pray  don't 
look  alarmed  —  we  shall  be  very  comfortable,  a  worthy  farmer 
having  promised  to  give  us  all  the  furniture  we  need,  and  we  have 
already  engaged  a  housekeeper." 

"  You  mean  the  Major's  house  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"That  is  too  absurd.  You  will  die  of  cold  and  hunger  down 
there.  Madame  Laboureau  and  1  have  done  everything  we  could 
think  of  to  make  you  comfortable — " 

**  You  are  very  kind,  indeed — " 

"  And  I  have  asked  down  several  of  your  friends  to  lighten 
the  diilness   of  your   stay — the  Lewisons,  Mr.  Morell,  Miss  Les- 

ley-" 

"Really  your  kindness.  Miss  Burnham,  will  make  us  play  the 
traitor  to  our  own  compact,  I  fear.  But  in  the  mean  time  you 
will  allow  us  to  follow  out  our  whim  for  at  least  a  few  nights.  I 
am  really  anxious  to  .say  that  1  have  .slept  in  a  haunted  house; 
and  then,  if  we  should  see  something — " 

"  Well,  wliat  then  ?" 

"  Look  at  the  honor  and  glory  of  being  allowed  to  publish  a  re- 
port of  it.  We  should  get  Morell  to  write  an  article  about  it ; 
and  we  should  be  positive  heroes  for  a  couple  of  months," 

"It  is  an  heroic  undertaking,"  she  said.  "You  will  have  to 
brave  a  good  deal,  even  if  you  see  no  ghosts.  But  at  least  you 
will  follow  my  advice  so  far  as  to  dine  with  us  this  evening ;  and 
I  will  meanwliilc  send  over  some  people  to  sec  that  the  ])Iace  is 
made  more  comfortable  than  you  are  likely  to  find  it.     Mr.  Ives, 


THE    WHITE    DOVES.  157 

you  are  at  the  bottom  of  this — will  you  urge  your  friend  to  ac- 
cept the  compromise  ?" 

"  We  accept  with  pleasure,"  I  said,  "  and  Madame  Laboureau 
will  be  a  witness  that  our  appointment  with  the  spirits  is  only 
postponed  until  night." 

The  bright,  quick  little  Frenchwoman  shook  her  head  gravely, 
and  there  was  a  solemn  look  in  her  gray  eyes. 

"  It  is  not  right  you  laugh.  They  say,  '  II  n'y  a  que  les  morts 
qui  ne  reviennent  pas.'  Hm  1  They  do  not  know.  If  you  live 
in  my  country — la  Bretagne,  Monsieur — you  get  to  hear  of  these 
things.  We  know  of  these  stories — we  used  to  gather  them — 
and  we  used  to  speak  them  to  each  other  in  the  long  evenings — 
c'est  un  passe-temps  comme  un  autre  !" 

She  addressed  these  latter  words  to  Miss  Burnham  (to  whom 
she  always  spoke  in  French),  and  shrugged  her  small  shoulders 
as  if  to  let  us  understand  that  she  did  not  believe  all  such  legends. 

"  But  you  yourself,  Madame,"  said  I,  "  have  you  ever  seen  any 
ghosts  ?" 

"  No,"  she  replied,  simply,  "  They  are  not  so  many  now,  since 
the  Revolution.  Once  we  used  to  have  plenty  of  stories  about 
them.     But  the  Revolution  has  altered  all  that." 

"Come,  Madame,"  said  Miss  Burnham;  "perhaps  the  gentle- 
men will  go  inside  and  rest  themselves  after  their  walk." 

"  I  should  like  to  see  whether  tlie  panels  have  been  properly 
prepared,"  said  Heatherleigh. 

"  I  think  I  can  assure  you  of  that.  Madame  is  also  an  artist, 
and  she  has  superintended  the  work." 

"  Oui,  ma  chere,"  said  Madame  to  Miss  Burnham,  as  they  en- 
tered the  house  ;  "  je  consacre  mes  loisirs  a  la  peinture  ;  et  tu — a 
la  bienfaisance." 

They  went  with  us  into  the  drawing-room,  and  there  we  held  a 
consultation  over  the  adornment  of  the  pillars.  I  was  not  aware 
that  Miss  Burnham  knew  so  much  about  artistic  matters,  nor  that 
she  took  so  much  interest  in  them  as  was  evidenced  by  her  bright 
and  intelligent  talk  with  Heatherleigh.  At  length  our  plan  of 
operations  was  decided  upon,  and  then  the  two  ladies  left  us.  I 
had  accidentally  learned  that  Colonel  Burnham,  and  a  niece  of  his, 
by  his  wife's  side,  were  staying  in  the  house. 

It  was  late  in  the  afternoon  when  our  traps  arrived  from  Wy- 
combe.    Almost  at  the  same  time  the  part}'  from  London  made 


158  KILMENY. 

their  appearance,  and  there  was  just  time  for  all  of  us  to  dress  for 
dinner.  Goinjf  down  to  a  sort  of  reception-room — the  drawing- 
room  being  shut  up  for  the  present — 1  asked  Heatherleigh  if  he 
thought  we  should  be  accommodated  with  a  side-table. 

"  I  don't  know,"  he  said.  "  I  believe  comic  singers,  at  some 
great  houses,  come  in  with  dessert,  having  dined  in  another  room. 
But  then  we  are  not  able  to  amuse  the  company,  even  in  that  way. 
However,  if  we  have  to  sit  behind  the  screen,  Morell  shall  come 
with  us.     Being  an  author,  it  is  his  place." 

This  Mr.  Morell  was  a  gentleman  who  moved  in  very  good  cir- 
cles, and  was  much  thought  of  as  a  wit.  There  was  a  vagueness 
about  his  sources  of  income.  He  had  chambers  in  the  Albany, 
rode  a  good  horse  in  the  Park,  belonged  to  a  first-class  club,  and 
was  known  to  contribute  smart  articles  on  fashionable  subjects 
(particularly  the  demi-monde)  to  one  or  two  newspapers.  He  was 
a  magnitici'nt  diner-out;  the  end  of  the  season  found  him  as  fresh 
as  a  lark,  with  his  stock  of  stories  (for  dinner  and  after-dinner) 
not  half  exhausted.  His  acquaintance  with  titled  persons  was 
enormous.  He  got  his  cigars  through  a  duke ;  and  never  made 
a  purchase  in  wine  without  consulting  a  marquis.  He  was  a  ntid- 
dle-aged,  stout,  bright-looking  man,  with  a  resemblance,  in  the 
contour  of  his  face,  to  Tom  Moore ;  he  sang  and  played  exqui- 
sitely ;  he  conversed  and  paid  compliments,  sat  a  horse,  and  han- 
dled a  breech-loader  all  with  the  same  consummate  ease ;  and  he 
borrowed  money  from  every  one  of  his  acquaintances  with  the 
most  charming  air  in  the  world. 

When  we  went  down-stairs,  we  found  him  alone  in  the  room,] 
seated  at  the  piano,  and  rattling  off  some  light  and  rapid  seleo- 
tions  from  "  Dinorah." 

He  immediately  stopped  and  sprang  from  the  stool. 

*'  My  dear  fellow,  Ikjw  do  you  do — how  do  you  do  ?  And  you, 
Mr.  Ives — a  little  bird  has  whis])ered  to  me  something  about  a 
certain  picture.  Ah,  well !  perhaps  it  is  a  secret — no  harm  done 
— and  so  you  have  come  to  lielp  us  to  scatter  destruction  among 
the  liundiani  pheasants?  I  say"  (here  liis  voice  dro})ped  to  a 
confidential  undertone),  "is  it  any  good  down  here?  You  know 
a  woman  lets  lier  preserves  run  to  the  devil — somebody  might 
make  a  joke  out  of  that,  but  no  matter — and  doesn't  care  if  she 
gets  enough  out  of  tlir-in  for  her  own  table,  and  to  send  to  her 
friends." 


THE    WHITE    DOVES.  159 

"  I  don't  know  how  tTie  Burnliam  woods  are,"  said  Heatherleigh  ; 
"  Ives  can  tell  you  something  about  them,  but  he  and  I  have  come 
down  on  business  merely." 

"  The  deuce  you  have  !" 

"  And  we  are  going  to  tear  ourselves  away  from  your  society 
every  evening,  in  order  to  sleep  in  a  haunted  house." 

"A  haunted  house  !  Oh  !  damme  !  I  must  join  your  party.  I 
never  did  such  a  thing  in  my  life — should  like  above  all  things  to 
coquet  with  a  spirit,  and  draw  pentagrams  on  the  floor,  you  know, 
and  that  sort  of  thing." 

"  No,  no,"  said  Heatherleigh  ;  "  too  many  would  spoil  the  game, 
and  frighten  them  off.  If  we  can  inveigle  them  into  a  perform- 
ance, depend  upon  it  you  shall  have  the  full  benefit  of  it,  and  be 
able  to  thrill  London  with  a  description." 

"  Ah  !  Fm  in  bad  odor,  just  now,  with  my  literary  friends.  I 
was  imprudent  enough  to  write  an  article  on  the  morality  of  pay- 
ing one's  debts,  and — would  you  believe  it  ? — every  editor  I  sent 
it  to  took  it  for  a  personal  insult !  Upon  my  soul,  there  wasn't  an 
editor  in  London  would  print  it. — Oh  !  Miss  Lesley,"  he  instant- 
ly added,  as  Bonnie  Lesley  came  into  the  room,  radiant  in  white 
silk,  that  glimmered  through  gauzy  folds,  with  a  bunch  of  blue 
forget-me-nots  in  her  yellow  hair,  "  do  you  know  what  awaits  you 
down  here  ?  These  gentlemen  have  discovered  a  haunted  house, 
and  mean  to  engage  the  spirits  to  appear  for. your  amusement. 
There  is  something  so  much  finer  in  getting  ghosts  that  are  pri- 
vate property — kept  on  the  premises,  as  it  were — than  in  paying 
a  guinea  a-head  to  have  your  grandmother's  name  misspelled  on  a 
piece  of  paper." 

I  had  not  seen  her  since  we  were  together  at  Brighton,  and  it 
seemed  to  me  as  if  she  had  brought  away  something  of  the  sea 
with  her,  in  the  blue  of  her  eyes. 

The  other  people  now  appeared  in  ones  and  twos,  among  them 
Mr.  Alfred  Burnham,  who  had  not  made  his  appearance  before. 
Dinner  was  announced,  and  an  orderly  procession  of  couples 
passed  along  the  corridor  and  into  the  dining-room,  which  was 
brilliantly  lit.  It  was  my  good-fortune  to  find  myself  seated  by 
the  side  of  Madame  Laboureau.  Colonel  Biu-nham  had  taken  in 
his  niece,  but  Heatherleigh,  sitting  next  her,  turned  from  his  own 
partner,  and  talked,  in  his  quiet,  half-humorous  fashion,  to  Miss 
Burnham  during   the  whole  time.     Mr.  Morell  had  brought  in 


160  KILMENY. 

Bonnie  Lesley,  and  was  already  un  tlie  best  of  terms  with  her,  tell 
ing  her  funny  anecdotes  about  all  sorts  of  celebrities  in  town,  de- 
scribing to  her  the  absurdities  of  the  new  play,  ridiculing  the  new- 
est fashions.  She  appeared  to  be  very  much  delighted.  She 
paid  him  the  most  devoted  attention,  although  she  received  with 
the  same  amount  of  amused  interest  his  good  stories  and  his  dull 
ones,  his  quips  and  his  I'elapses  into  sober  earnest. 

"  You  are  a  great  friend  of  that  young  lady,"  said  Madame  La- 
boureau,  with  a  smile.  She  had  been  watching  the  direction  my 
eyes  had  taken. 

"  Yes,  she  has  been  good  enough  to  take  me  in  hand." 

"  Ah  !  you  must  not  speak  in  that  tone.  You  think  she  flirts  ? 
No.  It  is  only  her  good-nature,  that  makes  her  to  amuse  people. 
Or  perhaps — eh? — she  wants  to  make  you  jealous?" 

"  It  would  be  too  great  a  compliment,  Madame  Laboureau." 

"  Ah,  well !"  said  the  old  hidy,  with  a  sigji.  " 'riiere  are  ladies 
— there  are  gentlemen — who  you  cannot  understand.  They  do 
not  wish  to  annoy  others,  they  do  not  wish  to  be  inconstant,  or  to 
receive  all  friends  with  the  like  favor,  but  they  cannot  help  it.  It 
is  their  nature.  It  is  dangerous  to  fall  in  love  with  them,  for  they 
never  fall  quite  in  love  ;  if  they  do,  they  forget  next  day,  when  a 
new  friend  comes.  They  do  not  try  to  act  wrong ;  they  only 
cannot  lielp  liking  novelty,  liking  the  excitation  of  new  falling 
in  love.  Perhaps  they  like  better  the  falling  in  love  rather  than 
the  being  in  love.     Is  it  not  so  ?" 

*'  I  think  you  are  quite  right,"  I  said ;  and,  indeed,  I  have  often 
thought  of  Madame's  shrewd  phrase,  "  they  like  the  falling  in  love 
better  than  the  being  in  love,''''  as  explaining  a  good  many  of  the  odd 
pranks  and  love  miseries  which  happen  in  one's  circle  of  friends. 

But  I  added— 

"  I  hope  you  are  not  talking  of  Miss  Lesley  ?" 

"  Not  at  all,  not  at  all.  1  speak  of  a  paiticular  kind  of  nature. 
You  may  meet  it,  perhaps  not.  And  I  know  many  ladies  are 
blamed  f(jr  eixinetting,  whi'ii  tliey  cainidl  help  it.  They  cannot 
help  being  pleased  with  new  attentions.  1  should  explain  so 
iiiikIi  better  if  I  spoke  in  French,  but  I  do  not  like  to  speak 
French,  except  to  Miss  Hester." 

"Won't  you  extend  the  same  favor  to  me?  You  will  speak  to 
me  in  French,  and  I  shall  answer  you  in  Knglish.  Is  not  that 
the  l)est  arrangement  for  giving  both  frcfdom  ?" 


THE    WHITE    DOVES.  161 

And  this  she  did.  She  chatted  away  with  great  vohibility,  and 
no  one  could  have  failed  to  be  delighted  with  her  pert  sayings 
and  her  touches  of  literary  adornment,  and  the  little  personal  co- 
quetries of  her  manner.  Yet  I  listened  to  it  all  as  if  it  were  a 
dream,  and  I  don't  know  what  sort  of  answers  I  made  to  her. 
What  I  did  hear,  clear  and  sharp,  was  the  conversation  between 
Bonnie  Lesley  and  her  companion.  Do  what  I  would,  I  could 
not  help  hearing  it,  and,  although  I  persistently  kept  my  eyes 
away,  I  fancied  I  could  see  her  face,  and  the  smile  on  it,  and  the 
amused  wonder  of  her  .big  eyes. 

"  I  am  the  happiest  man  upon  earth,"  he  said  to  her.  "  Every 
pleasure  I  enjoy  I  look  upon  as  a  bit  of  luck.  Fancy  how  happy 
a  criminal  who  has  been  condemned  to  death,  and  been  reprieved, 
must  feel  all  his  life  after.  Every  glass  of  beer  he  drinks  is  a 
pleasure  he  had  forfeited.     So  it  is  in  my  case — " 

"  Oh,  have  you  been  reprieved  ?"  said  Miss  Lesley. 

"  Well,  it  is  about  the  same  thing.  My  mother-in-law  lived 
two  years  in  my  house,  and  I  didn't  murder  her." 

I  fancy  this  elaborate  witticism  had  done  duty  on  many  an  oc- 
casion. At  all  events,  it  rather  failed  in  this  instance ;  as  Miss 
Lesley  merely  said,  "  Oh,  indeed !"  with  a  half-puzzled  look  on 
her  face. 

Sometimes,  too,  I  heard  Hester  Burnham's  voice  through  the 
various  hum  of  talk.  Occasionally  I  caught  sight  of  her  face  and 
her  eyes ;  and  it  seemed  as  if  Kilmeny  were  sitting  there,  pure 
and  calm  and  beautiful,  scarcely  comprehending  the  Babel  of 
sounds  around  her. 

To  tell  the  truth — and  are  not  these  a  series  of  very  unroman- 
tic  confessions  ? — I  was  very  savage  during  that  dinner — with 
what  I  hardly  knew.  L-ritated,  discontented,  impatient,  I  waited 
for  the  close  of  it ;  and  I  was  heartily  glad  when  the  ladies  rose. 

"  Que  nous  allons  nous  ennuyer,  enfant !"  said  Madame  Labou- 
reau,  with  a  little  laugh,  to  Hester  Burnham,  as  they  passed  from 
the  room. 

Mr.  Morell  shut  the  door,  and  returned  to  the  table. 

"  What  a  charming  old  lady  that  Madame — " 

"  Laboureau." 

"  Madame  Laboureau  is.  You  never  see  Englishwomen  pre- 
serve that  sprightliness  of  manner  in  their  old  age.  They  get 
apathetic  and  corpulent  and  commonplace — " 


162  KILMENY. 

"  Engjlisliwomen  grow  fat  on  the  /('s  the}'  swallow,"  said  Heatli- 
erleigh, 

"  Ami  if  there  ever  was  a  county  of  A-droppers,  Bucks  is  that 
county,"  said  Morel).  "  The  feats  of  jugglery  the  people  about 
here  perform  with  their  A's  are  astounding.  Now  what  do  you 
say,  Colonel  Burnham,  to  our  changing  our  coats  and  going  out- 
side for  a  cigar  ?     1  fancy  tliere  are  no  deep  drinkers  among  us." 

"  Or  into  the  billiard-room  ?"  said  Mr.  Alfred  Burnham,  "There 
are  pool-balls,  if  you're  not  particular  about  the  cues." 

No  one  seemed  to  care  about  this  disinterested  proposal  on  the 
part  of  Mr.  Burnham. 

"  Or  what  do  you  say,"  suggested  Hcatherleigli,  "  to  our  going 
into  the  drawing-room,  and  postponing  our  smoking  until  the  la- 
dies have  gone  up-stairs?  In  any  case,  Ives  and  I  are  going  off 
presently." 

This  latter  course  was  agreed  upon;  and  after  a  little  time  we 
went  into  the  drawing-room.  Mrs.  Lewison  was  singing;  the 
other  ladies  were  crowded  into  a  corner,  on  sofas  and  chairs  and 
cushions,  listening  to  some  ghost-story  that  Madame  Laboureau 
was  telling  them.  It  seems  the  conversation  had  turned  upon 
the  Major's  house,  and  Madame,  who  had  begged  to  be  allowed 
to  speak  in  French,  had  trotted  out  many  of  her  Breton  reminis- 
cences. When  we  entered  the  room,  she  was  saying  that  a  much 
more  extraordinary  occurrence  than  that  she  had  just  related  had 
happened  to  herself.      We  prayed  her  to  tell  tlie  story. 

"  Wdl  the  gentlemen  also  permit  me  to  speak  my  own  tongue 
— I  have  too  much  constraint  in  English  ?" 

She  crossed  her  thin,  small,  brown  hands  on  her  knees,  and  be- 
gan the  story. 

"  II  y  a  de  cela  bien  longtemps.  J'otais  jeune  encore,  et  soit 
dit  en  passant  tres-jolie" — with  which  she  looked  archly  at  Bon- 
nie Lesley,  and  smiled.  "  Nous  habitions  a  cette  6poquc  le  nord 
de  la  Bretagne,  et  j'avais  alors  une  demi-sa'ur  dangereusciinent  ma- 
lade — tellement  malade  que  nous  craignions  a  tout  moment  de  la 
pcrdre.  Pour  ma  j)art  j'avais  passe  deux  jours  r't  deux  units  au- 
pres  d'elle,  lorsque,  oppressee  par  I'air  malsain  de  la  chambre,  je 
profitai  d'un  instant  oii  nui  denii-s(rur  sommcillait.  Je  me  rendis 
au  jardin.  Le  temps  etait  magniH(|iK'.  llii  superhe  clair  de  lune 
argentait  les  dbjets,  une  brise  legere  agitait  les  arbn^s,  et  un  rossig- 
nol  cache  dans  un  bosquet  faisait  entendre  ses  jobs  accents.   Mais 


THE    WHITE    DOVES.  163 

je  parle  trop  vite — me  coinpienez-vous  bien,  messieurs  et  mes- 
dames  ?" 

The  little  gesture  with  which  she  accompanied  the  question 
was  admirable.  She  was  acting  the  raconteuse.  The  measured 
gravity  of  her  voice,  the  formal  introduction  of  the  moonlight 
and  the  nightingale,  the  apologetic  look  with  which  she  urged 
the  question,  were  all  parts  of  an  excellent  and  delicately  finished 
performance. 

"  Je  me  promenais,"  she  continued,  "  respirant  le  doux  parfum 
des  roses.  Voila  que  soudain  je  vols  apparaitre  une  nuee  de  co- 
lombes,  blanches  comme  neige.  Elles  voltigent  silencieuses,  et  me 
saisissent  d'effroi.  Tout  d'un  coup  elles  s'abattent  sur  la  fenetre, 
et  s'envolent  de  nouveau — " 

She  lifted  her  hands,  her  eyes  were  fixed  on  vacancy,  as  if  she 
saw  there  the  white  doves  wheeling  around  the  window  of  her 
foster-sister's  room. 

"  — Les  rideaux  de  la  chambre  s'agitent.  La  fenetre  s'ouvre,  et 
se  referme.  Un  long  et  profond  soupir  se  fait  entendre,  et  tout 
disparait.  Epouvantee,  eperdue,  me  trainant  avec  peine,  je  rentre, 
et  tremblante  je  me  dirige  vers  la  chambre  de  la  malade.  .  .  .  Ma 
soeur  etait  morte !" 

The  old  lady's  face  was  quite  pale ;  and  she  had  so  vividly  im- 
pressed on  her  hearers  the  reality  of  the  details  of  the  story — the 
flying  of  the  white  doves  around  the  invalid's  window — their  silent 
disappearance — her  hurried  and  trembling  rush  to  the  sick-room 
— and  the  discovery  of  her  sister's  death — that  for  a  second  or 
two  after  she  had  finished  no  one  spoke. 

"  Voila,  certes,  une  bien  curieuse  histoire,  madame,"  said  I  at 
last, "  mais  la  fatigue  agissant  sur  votre  imagination  explique  peut- 
fetre  I'etrange  hallucination  dont  vous  etiez  I'objet." 

"  Was  it,  then,  an  hallucination,  monsieur  ?"  she  said,  looking 
up,  with  reproof  in  her  eyes. 

The  silence  now  being  broken,  it  was  curious  to  notice  the  dif- 
ferent ways  in  which  the  listeners  had  received  the  story. 

"  What  a  singular  thing  !"  said  Miss  Lesley,  with  a  smile,  and  a 
look  of  wonder  on  her  face.  "  It  would  make  a  pretty  picture, 
would  it  not  ?" 

"  Sie  kann  auch  gut  auf  schneiden,"  said  Morell,  in  an  under- 
tone, to  Heatherleigh — a  remark  which  I  did  not  understand,  my 
acquaintance  with  Continental  slang  being  very  limited  then. 


164  KILMENV. 

"  Yes,"  responded  Ileatlierloigli,  "  she  is  a  magnificent  actress." 

"  Capital !"  said  Alfred  Burnhani,  when  the  narrative  was  end- 
ed. From  that,  and  the  accompanying  laugli,  I  concluded  that 
he  had  not  understood  the  story,  and  had  fancied  it  was  probably 
a  joke. 

Hester  Burnham  said  nothing ;  but,  long  after  the  otliers  had 
ceased  talking  of  it,  I  saw  that  her  eyes  were  very  wistful  and 
strange  in  their  expression,  and  that  she  sat  rather  apart  and 
silent. 

We  remained  perhaps  about  half  an  hour  in  the  drawing-room. 
During  that  time  Miss  Lesley  did  the  most  she  could  to  make  her 
extreme  condescension  to  Mr.  Morell  visible  to  the  rest  of  the 
guests.  She  played  an  accompaniment  fur  a  song  which  he  sang 
very  well  indeed.  Then  he  and  she  sang  a  duet  together.  She 
even  devoted  a  few  minutes  to  llcatherleigh,  and  was  very  gra- 
cious to  him. 

"  Now,"  she  said,  coming  over  to  him,  "  you  must  settle  all  our 
doubts  about  Madame  Laboureau's  story.  Is  it,  or  is  it  not,  too 
improbable  to  be  true?" 

"  You  should  never  doubt  the  truth  of  a  good,  wild,  absurd 
story.  Miss  Lesley,"  said  he.  "  We  want  all  the  improbable,  nn- 
raculous,  supernatural  material  we  can  get,  if  only  to  vary  the 
commonplaceness  of  life.  Don't  you  think  so?  1  think  the  hu- 
man race  should  enter  into  a  compact  to  believe  that  all  wild 
stories  (except  those  of  the  Levant  Herald)  are  true.  However, 
won't  you  sing  for  me,  before  I  go,  my  favorite  song — you 
know  ?" 

"  Oh,  I'm  tired  of  it,"  she  said,  turning  away  with  an  air  of 
petulance,  and  not  so  much  as  giving  a  word  to  me,  who  sat  by 
Ileatherleigh,  and  had  not  spoken  to  her  since  the  dispersal  of  the 
Brighton  circle. 

"  Is  that  a  lesson  for  you  V  said  Ileatherleigh, 

"That  she  should  not  speak  to  me?" 

"  Yes." 

"She  has  a  right  to  please  hersi^'lf  in  liir  choice  of  companions, 
surely  ?" 

"Yes,  and  to  throw  them  otV  wiicii  she  has  done  with  them. 
Hut  I  confess  slie  puzzles  me  in  your  case.  She  does  not  seem 
angry  witli  you,  and  she  ought  to  bf,  if  my  notion  of  tlie  mattei 
is  ri-rlit." 


THE    HAUNTED    HOUSE.  165 

"  I  don't  know  what  yoti  mean,"  I  said,  "  but  I  have  no  doubt 
whatever  that  your  notion  is  entirely  wrong.  For  you,  who  see 
the  best  side  of  every  one's  nature,  are  invariably  unjust  to  her^ 
and  to  her  alone." 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

THE     HAUNTED     HOUSE. 


We  were  a  sufficiently  gay  party  as  we  left  Burnham  that 
night  in  quest  of  ghosts.  Morell  had  insisted  on  at  least  walking 
over  with  us,  in  order  to  have  a  cigar  by  the  way. 

"But  how  are  you  to  find  your  road  back?"  said  Heatherleigh, 
as  we  issued  into  the  cool  night-air. 

"  We'll  see  about  that,"  he  replied,  carelessly. 

He  was  evidently  bent  on  sharing  the  adventure. 

"  You  are  not  ashamed  to  leave  your  charming  partner,"  said 
Heatherleigh. 

"  Miss  Lesley  ?"  he  said.  "  Oh,  a  charming  girl.  But,  I  say, 
you  know,  if  one  were  to  see  her  at  a  distance — if  one  had  not 
spoken  to  her — I  think  it  would  occur  to  one  to  ask  whether  she 
were  cocotte  or  cocodette.  No  offence — I  only  mean  her  general 
appearance,  such  as  a  stranger  might  see  it.  Problem  for  a  young 
man — whether  a  cocotte  or  a  cocodette  will  ruin  him  the  faster. 

Here  he  began  to  sing  an  abominable  parody  of  Heine's  "  Du 
liast  Diamanten  und  Perlen  ;"  little  snatches  of  which  were  con- 
tinually crossing  the  rather  wild  and  desultory  current  of  our  talk 
during  the  remainder  of  the  journey. 

It  was  a  lovely  night,  the  moonlight  throwing  long  shadows 
from  the  Burnham  chestnuts  and  oaks  upon  the  broad  avenue 
leading  down  to  the  valley.  Far  up  on  the  hills  the  woods  lay 
dusky  and  silent ;  while  here  and  there  a  chalky  field  gleamed 
white  among  the  darker  patches  of  turnip  or  potato  that  covered 
the  long,  rounded  slopes.  I  was  glad  to  get  away  from  the  big 
house  that  lay  behind  us — high  up  there,  among  the  dark  trees, 
with  a  red  glimmer  in  its  lower  windows,  and  the  moonlight  fall- 
ing on  its  pale  front.  I  was  more  and  more  getting  to  believf 
that  there  was  something  wrong  in  my  manner  of  life — that  1 


166  KILMENY. 

ought  not  to  go  among  these  people,  who  led  me  into  wild  dreams 
and  bitter  disappointments.  I  was  glad  to  be  outside — in  the 
free  air — and  with  only  men  for  my  companions.  Luckily  more 
jovial  companions  could  not  have  been  found.  We  startled  the 
calm  solitudes  of  Burnhani  with  some  rather  imperfectly  executed 
madrigals ;  nor  did  Morell  cease  his  gay,  rapid  talk  until  we  had 
passed  up  the  long  narrow  path  through  the  shrubbery  and  stood 
before  the  Major's  house. 

"  It  is  a  ghostly  looking  place,"  said  he,  looking  at  the  low, 
flat  house,  with  its  projecting  bay-windows,  its  curious  veranda, 
and  the  crumbling  white  walls  which  gleamed  in  the  light  of  the 
moon. 

"By  Jove,  I  have  forgotten  the  key  !"  sai;J  Heatherleigh. 

"  But  there  is  no  necessity  for  a  key  in  getting  into  the  Major's 
house,"  said  I,  throwing  up  one  of  the  windows,  and  jumping  into 
the  room. 

I  was  astounded  by  what  I  saw  there.  Instead  of  a  bare,  empty 
chamber,  with  bits  of  plaster  about  the  floor,  and  cobwebs  obscur- 
ing the  window-panes,  I  found  that  the  place  had  been  carefully 
swept  out — there  were  a  table,  some  chairs,  a  sofa,  a  lamp,  and 
a  couple  of  candles,  etc.,  etc.,  making  the  place  quite  habitable. 
When  I  had  struck  a  match,  I  found  a  note  addressed  to  me  lying 
on  the  table.     It  ran  as  follows : 

"Dear  Sir, — The  things  as  Miss  Burnham  have  sent  over  arc  in 
the  cubbard  in  the  all,  the  key  over  the  door.  My  compliments,  and 
hope  you  will  send  fur  anything  you  want  and  be  very  welcome. 

"Sarah  Toomer." 

We  went  to  the  "  cubbard  in  the  all,"  and  there  a  wonderful 
display  met  us  of  bottles,  glasses,  knives  and  forks,  a  cruet-stand, 
plates,  a  cold  pic,  a  ham,  some  bread,  etc. 

"  What  a  thoughtful  little  woman  it  is !"  cried  Heatherleigh. 
"  Why,  I  declare,  here  is  a  box  of  cigars  !" 

"  And  tills  is  positively  Mutnm — and  here  is  some  seltzer!"  ex- 
claimed Morell.  "Does  your  gentle  friend  smoke,  also,  that  she 
knows  the  only  champagne  that  should  accompany  a  cigar?  Such 
kindness  overpowers  me.  It  would  be  the  depth  of  ingratitude 
not  to  pay  our  respects  to  these  good  things:  what  do  you  say?" 

So  we  formed  a  triumphal  procession  back  to  the  sitting-room, 


THE    HAUNTED    HOUSE.  107 

carrying  with  us,  like  the  figures  in  an  Egyptian  bass-relief,  all 
manner  of  glasses,  bottles,  and  what  not,  including  the  cigars. 

"  Now  this  is  what  T  enjoy  in  the  country,"  said  Morell.  "  That 
old  colonel,  I  swear,  has  gone  to  bed  to  dream  of  shooting  par- 
tridges, and  he  will  get  up  somewhere  in  the  middle  of  the  night, 
and  start  without  breakfast,  and  bother  the  birds  so  that  one 
sha'n't  have  a  shot  all  the  day  after." 

"  It  is  a  curious  thing,"  said  I,  "  but  you  never  do  any  good 
partridge-shooting  if  you  go  out  too  early." 

"  It  is  a  blunder,"  said  Morell,  "  which  I  never  commit.  I'm 
for  having  my  sport  comfortably.  I  am  not  a  slave  to  shooting, 
and  I  positively  loathe  and  abhor  the  weariness  of  fishing.  Motto 
for  an  angler's  club:  ''The  fishing  for  the  day  is  the  evil  thereof.'' 
Do  you  fish,  Heatherleigh  ?" 

"  No,"  said  Heatherleigh,  who  was  cutting  the  wire  of  one  of 
the  bottles. 

By  this  time  the  candles  and  lamp  were  lit,  and  we  sat  down  to 
our  cigars.  But  the  light  of  the  candles  was  not  strong  enough 
wholly  to  overcome  the  light  of  the  moon,  which  came  in  through 
the  large  open  bay-window,  and  painted  squares  of  pale  white  on 
the  wooden  floor. 

"  Is  that  a  gun  in  the  corner  ?"  asked  Morell. 

"Yes." 

"  What  did  you  get  that  for  ?" 

"  Merely  to  keep  about  the  house  so  that  tramps  mayn't  be 
tempted  to  break  in  upon  us  during  the  night,  there  being  but  few 
bars  about  the  place.  But  I  see  Toomer  has  stupidly  loaded  it 
and  capped  it." 

"You  didn't  get  it  to  shoot  at  the  ghosts?" 

"  You  may  have  a  shot  if  you  like  when  they  come." 

"  Here's  to  their  coming !"  he  cried,  lifting  a  glass  of  seething 
wine.  "  And  here's  to  the  good  little  lady,  with  the  pretty  eyes, 
who  sent  us  this  feast ;  and  here's  to  the  partridges  of  the  neigh- 
borhood, and  to  the  Colonel,  and  to  Miss  Lesley — 

'  Du  hast  meine  Uhr  und  Kette, 
Ruinirt  mein  Porte-monnaie — ' 

By  the  way,  has  Colonel  Burnham  any  money  ?" 
"  Precious  little,"  said  Heatherleigh. 
"  His  son  ?" 


168  KILMENT. 

"  Not  a  rap." 

"Oh,  then  he'll  the  more  easily  get  into  heaven — that  must  be 
his  consolation.  It  must  be  a  comfort  to  many  people  not  to  be 
rich." 

"  I  fancy  young  Burnham  would  rather  take  the  riches  and 
chance  the  rest,"  said  Heatherleigh.  "  You  know  if  rich  men 
can't  get  into  heaven,  they  can  get  into  the  House  of  Commons, 
and  most  of  them  don't  seem  disgusted  with  the  compromise." 

"  Burnham  would  rather  go  on  the  turf  than  enter  cither,"  said 
I,  "  if  you  only  give  him  the  funds." 

Morell  nodded  his  head  sagaciously. 

"  A  little  cousinly  feeling,  eh  ?  That's  why  he  hangs  about  the 
place ;  but  surely  the  girl  won't  have  liim  ?" 

"  Why  ?"  said  I ;  "  he  is  handsome,  and  well-mannered  towards 
women,  has  as  much  brains  as  most  idle  men  of  his  class,  and — " 

"  And  therefore  she  ought  to  marry  him  !"  said  Morell,  gayly. 
"  Ah,  well,  perhaps  you  are  right.  When  my  poor  wife  was  alive, 
she  used  to  try  to  get  me  to  believe  that  women  had  some  sort 
of  romance  in  them,  but  now —  I  suppose  they  are  what  we 
have  made  them  ;  and  that  the  whole  lot  of  us  are  a  set  of  selfish, 
mean,  interested  wretches.  Here's  to  the  better  disposition  of  the 
next  age ! — 

'Unci  liiist  inicli  in  den  Riiitisteiii  geworfen, 
Mein  Liebclien,  icli  sage  ade!'" 

"Don't  sing  that  song  while  you  are  talking  of  anybody  over 
at  Burnhain,"  I  besought  of  him. 

"  My  dear  sir,  there  was  no  reference  whatever  to  anybody  at 
Burnham  or  elsewhere.  I  am  just  in  such  a  mood  at  present 
that  I  could  go  on  chatting  or  singing  for  hours,  without  the 
faintest  notion  of  cohon-ncy,  which  is  always  an  oiTcnsivo  neces- 
sity. I  feci  myself  free  from  all  trammels.  I  don't  need  to  be 
logical  or  grammatical.  T  get  glimpses  of  fine  fanciers  and  sug- 
gestions— from  myself  and  those  around  me,  and  I  have  not  to 
stop  to  weigh  their  business-value.  It  is  only  the  next  day  that 
the  fine,  dear,  crystalline  thought  thaws  and  resolves  itself  into 
a  newspaper  article — " 

"  Where  you  disguise  yourself  in  |ilirascs,"  said  Ilcatlicrlcigh, 
"  and  hide  yourself,  like  a  cuttlc-fisli,  in  a  cloud  of  ink." 

"  I  tell  you,"  said  Morell,  his  voice  increasing  in  volume,  "  that 


THE     HAUNTED    HOUSE.  169 

with  a  good  cigar  in  my  lips,  and  some  cool  wine  near  me,  I  imag- 
ine poems  that  would  startle  some  of  you,  if  I  could  only  jot 
them  down.  I  have  not  the  trick  of  rhyme — that  is  the  differ- 
ence between  me  and  some  whom  I  am  delighted  to  honor,  I 
sometimes  fancy  myself  writing  a  poem — 

Ah,  sweetest,  how  chill  is  the  morning  air ! 

Is  it  your  last  kiss  that  is  on  my  lips  ? 

How  pale  you  are  and  you  tiemhle,  but  your  small  fingers  are  warm, 

And  your  eyes  are  full  of  love. 

The  morning  mist  is  full  of  tlie  yellow  sunlight,  cold  and  chill, 

But  there  are  dreams  in  your  eyes,  and  stories  of  all  that  is  over — " 

He  recited  these  lines  as  if  he  were  really  in  a  state  of  bewil- 
dered exaltation ;  then  he  burst  out  laughing,  and  fell  to  singing 
his  abominable  "  Du  hast  meine  Uhr  und  Kette." 

Presently,  however,  he  had  returned  to  his  normal  condition  of 
indifference ;  and  Heatherleigh  and  he  were  discussing  the  origin 
of  conscience,  Morell's  crude  notions  on  the  subject  being  just  the 
sort  of  incentive  that  was  needed  to  provoke  Heatherleigh  into 
entering  upon  those  humorous,  thoughtful  monologues  which 
were  to  me  a  constant  source  of  delight.  But  that  I  might  tire 
my  reader,  I  should  dearly  like  to  insert  here  what  I  could  recol- 
lect of  some  one  of  these  inimitable  discourses,  which  were  the 
very  reflex  of  Heatherleigh's  nature. 

However,  I  went  outside  to  breathe  the  fresh  air,  and  also  to 
reflect  on  one  or  two  events  of  the  evening.  Was  I  angry  or 
jealous  that  Miss  Lesley  had  so  openly  disavowed  our  former  in- 
timacy ?  Surely  I  had  no  right  to  be  either.  In  descending  from 
her  high  estate  to  confer  the  favor  of  her  speech  and  friendship 
upon  me,  she  had  probably  obeyed  a  thoughtless  whim,  which 
was  now  forgotten.  If  I  had  ever  been  tempted  to  dream  fool- 
ish dreams  of  the  future  through  this  intimacy,  it  was  not  her 
fault — it  was  the  fault  of  my  inexperience  of  the  manners  of  good 
society.  I  had  taken  as  meaning  something  what  really  meant 
nothing.  Yfet  I  could  not  help  regarding  her  with  a  certain  cold 
distrust;  and  I  was  very  loth  to  think  of  going  over  to  Burnham 
next  morning,  to  undergo  the  humiliation  of  her  too  ostentatious 
neglect.  I  wished  that  I  had  not  undertaken  to  assist  Heather- 
leigh. I  was  again  being  thrown  among  those  people  with  whom 
I  had  no  real  sympathy.  It  was  not  by  mixing  with  them  that  I 
was  to  work  out  my  redemption  from  the  thraldom  of  Weavle; 

H 


170  KILMENY. 

and  I  bej^an  to  long  for  my  small  room  overlooking  Regent's  Park 
— for  the  close,  hard  work,  and  the  joyous  feeling,  and  the  bright 
hopes  attending  thereon. 

How  lovely  the  night  was !  It  seemed  too  beautiful  for  the 
country.  That  pure,  calm  moonlight  should  have  fallen  on  a  green, 
breaking  sea,  and  a  long,  curved  bay,  with  distant  rocks  jutting 
out  here  and  there  into  the  water.  It  was  a  night  on  which 
fairies  might  have  been  seen  hovering  over  the  sand — on  which, 
listening  intently,  you  might  have  heard  the  mermaiden  singing 
sadly  for  her  lover  of  Colonsay.  Even  as  it  was — a  soft  moonlit 
night  in  harvest,  down  in  the  leafy  heart  of  Bucks — it  was  very 
beautiful,  and  perhaps  a  trifle  sad,  in  that  it  suggested  the  sea, 

I  had  wandered  some  little  distance  from  the  house,  through 
the  shrubbery,  thinking  of  far  other  things  than  ghosts.  It  was 
the  ghosts  of  half -suggested  pictures  that  crowded  before  my  eyes, 
and  the  ghosts  of  half-forgotten  snatches  of  old  madrigals  that 
hummed  about  my  ears.  As  I  passed  on  I  came  to  the  side  of 
the  road,  from  which  I  was  separated  by  a  tall  hawthorn  hedge. 
Through  this  dark  mass  of  stems  and  leaves  it  seemed  to  me  that 
I  could  see  two  or  three  figures  passing  along,  making,  so  far  as 
I  could  hear,  not  the  least  sound.     I  stood  and  watched. 

Through  the  shrubbery  I  saw  that  they  had  left  the  road,  and 
were  proceeding  up  the  patl),  under  a  dark  avenue  of  lime-trees, 
towards  the  house.  I  could  not  make  out  the  number  of  the 
black  shadows,  but  there  was  one  figure  clothed  entirely  in  white. 
They  passed  along  quite  noiselessly ;  and  as  noiselessly  I  followed. 
Suddenly  I  heard  a  strange  laugh — 'low,  and  yet  strange  and  un- 
earthly. At  the  same  moment  the  white  figure — the  figure  of  a 
woman — glided  rapidly  across  the  lawn  and  was  lost  in  the  trees 
opposite.  I  drew  nearer.  The  laugh  was  heard  again  from  among 
the  trees;  and  again  tho  white  figure  darted  across  the  lawn  in 
front  of  the  house,  retreating  behind  some  tall  larches  that  stood 
at  the  end  of  the  shrubbery.  While,  however,  the  figure  was  in- 
visible to  those  inside  the  house  (supposing  that  they  had  been 
attracted  to  the  window  by  the  noise),  it  was  fully  visible  to  me ; 
and,  as  I  drew  yet  nearer,  it  seemed  that  the  outline  of  the  head 
and  shoulders,  shown  clear  in  the  moonlight,  was  quite  familiar. 
In  a  moment  the  truth  flashed  upon  me.  This  was  Bonnie  Les- 
ley, who  had  dressed  herself  up  as  a  ghost  for  the  j)urpose  of 
frightening  us,  and  who  had  persuaded  some  of  her  friends  to  ac- 


THE    HAUNTED    HOUSE.  171 

company  her.  They,  I  now  saw,  were  secreted  behind  various 
bushes,  evidently  waiting  for  the  entertainment.  I  crept  up  along 
the  side  of  the  shrubbery,  fancying  it  would  be  a  fair  retort  to 
frighten  them  ;  and  then  I  saw  that  Hester  Burnham  stood  alone, 
and  nearest  of  all  to  the  window,  behind  two  large  laurels  which 
Were  not  overburdened  with  leaves.  The  moonlight  being  at  her 
back,  she  was  probably  not  considering  that,  from  the  shadow  of 
the  room,  if  either  Heatherleigh  or  Morell  came  to  the  window, 
she  would  be  'more  seen  than  seeing.  Indeed,  I  felt  sure  that 
the  dark  outline  of  her  figure  must  be  clearly  visible  behind  the 
sparsely  covered  branches,  and  that  she  would  assuredly  reveal 
the  trick. 

Again  the  white  figure  laughed.  I  now  recognized  Bonnie 
Lesley's  voice,  as  she  ran  across  the  lawn. 

There  was  no  one  as  yet  at  the  window.  The  two  men  inside 
were  apparently  so  deep  in  metaphysics  that  they  had  heard 
nothing. 

Should  I  utter  a  wild  shriek  and  startle  the  ghost-makers  them- 
selves ?  I  .vas  not  half-a-dozen  yards  from  Miss  Burnham's  place 
of  concealment. 

I  saw  that  Bonnie  Lesley  and  a  gentleman  whom  I  took  to  be 
Mr.  Alfred  Burnham  were  at  the  other  side  of  the  lawn,  gathering 
together  small  stones  from  the  gravelled  walk ;  and  in  a  few  sec- 
onds Bonnie  Lesley  threw  a  handful  of  them  at  the  window.  But 
the  window  was  open,  and  so  the  gravel  rattled  in  upon  the  wood- 
en floor.  With  that  she  noiselessly  glided  across  the  lawn  and  into 
the  bushes. 

"  Did  you  see  that  ?"  I  heard  Morell  exclaim,  apparently  in  con- 
sternation.    "  It  was  a  woman.     Where  is  Ives  ?" 

"  Gone  up-stairs  to  bed,  I  suppose,"  said  Heatherleigh. 

Heatherleigh  went  around  the  passage  and  appeared  at  the  door ; 
Morell  was  still  standing  at  the  window.  Then  I  saw  the  latter 
disappear  for  a  second,  and  the  next  moment  I  saw  in  the  moon- 
light the  pale  gleam  of  the  gun-barrel.  It  was  pointed  at  the  bush 
behind  which  stood  Hester  Burnham.  I  was  paralyzed.  I  tried 
to  cry,  and  could  not.  I  staggered  forward,  caught  her  arm,  and 
drove  her  from  the  place  where  she  stood.  At  the  same  moment 
I  received  a  terrible  blow,  and  sank  to  the  earth,  with  a  frightful 
noise  in  my  ears,  and  a  sensation  as  if  the  sea  were  breaking  over 
me. 


172 


CHAPTER  XX. 

SOME      REVELATIONS. 

I  AWAKE  in  a  strange  room,  in  a  dusky  light  that  scarce  reveals 
the  objects  around  me.  Surely  some  one  came  close  to  the  bed- 
side, and  bent  over  me  for  a  moment,  and  touched  my  forehead 
with  her  lips,  and  then  glided  out  of  the  room.  But  I  can  see 
nothing  and  hear  nothing  for  the  din  that  is  in  my  ears — resem- 
bling the  rustling  of  innumerable  leaves — and  the  mist  that  is 
before  my  eyes.     I  feel  tired,  also,  and  weak  and  drowsy. 

The  doctor  comes  into  the  room.  I  have  not  seen  him  since 
my  father  and  uncle  were  buried  on  the  same  morning.  I  con- 
nect his  face  with  all  that  terrible  time,  and  wonder  whether  I, 
too,  am  dying.  It  seems  as  if  it  would  be  an  easy  thing  to  die — 
just  the  sinking  into  a  quiet  sleep,  with  plenty  of  sweet,  deep 
rest. 

The  doctor  appears  a  little  surprised,  takes  my  hand,  and  says 
he  is  glad  I  am  so  much  better. 

"  Where  am  I  ?" 

"  Why,  in  the  Major's  cottage.  Tn  a  day  or  two  we  shall  have 
you  removed  to  Burnham." 

"  Ihit — but  what  is  the  matter?  lias  anybody  been  sent  to  tell 
Mr.  Weavle  that  I  couldn't  come — " 

"  Mr.  Wea\le  ?"  said  the  doctor. 

Then  I  begin  to  recollect  myself.  I  must  have  been  dreaming 
about  Weavle.  I  am  no  longer  a  slave  to  Weavle  or  to  anybody. 
I  can  go  where  I  like — do  what  1  like.  Ihit  why  this  bed  and 
the  doctor?  I  further  recollect;  and  tluii  I  beg  the  doctor  to  tell 
me  all  that  occurred  that  night  when  1  saw  the  gun  pointed  at 
Ilrsfcr  BuniliMiii. 

"  l)iit  lirst  tell  iiic  wlio  went  out  of  the  room  just  now,  before 
you  came  in  ?" 

"  Why,  no  one.  You  have  been  so- soundly  a.sleep  for  some  time 
that  your  mother  went  down-stairs  for  a  little  while  to  get  some- 
thing to  eat." 


SOME    REVELATIONS.  173 

"  There  was  no  one  else  up  here  V 

"  No.  I  dare  say  you  were  a  little  confused  when  you  awoke, 
you  know,  and  may  have  fancied  you  saw  some  one." 

"  Ah,  I  dare  say." 

And  yet  I  thought  that  some  one  came  and  touched  my  fore- 
head with  her  lips  ;  and,  in  my  utter  prostration  and  nervous  weak- 
ness, I  wished  that  she  would  come  and  kiss  me  once  more,  that  I 
might  fall  asleep  and  die. 

"  How  long  have  I  been  ill  ?" 

"  Only  a  few  days.  You  have  been  a  little  feverish,  you  know ; 
but  the  ball  has  been  extracted — " 

"  A  ball,  was  it  ?" 

"  Yes.  That  idiot  Toomer  put  a  ball  and  a  sixpence  into  the 
barrel ;  and  that  bigger  idiot  of  a  friend  of  yours  must  needs  go 
and  fire  it.  Lucky  for  you  that  it  caught  your  watch  first,  or 
you  wouldn't  have  been  speaking  now." 

"  I  hear  wheels — who  is  that  ?" 

"  Miss  Burnham  going  home,  I  think.  She  has  been  here  the 
best  part  of  the  day  with  your  mother.  I  suppose  you  know  you 
saved  that  young  lady's  life  by  very  nearly  losing  your  own  ?" 

"  Doctor,  I  wish  I  was  able  to  laugh.  Miss  Burnham  once  gave 
me  half  a  crown  in  charity,  and  for  many  a  year  I  have  been  try- 
ing to  get  some  way  of  paying  it  to  her  back  again.  Have  I  paid 
it  back  now  ?" 

"  You  shouldn't  talk  in  that  way  of  her,"  said  the  doctor,  grave- 
ly and  kindly  ;  "  she  is  all  gratitude  towards  you.  Indeed,  I  told 
her  she  was  doing  her  best  to  kill  herself  in  return — sittin'  up 
when  there  was  no  need  for  it,  and  cryin'  when  there  was  no  need 
for  it,  and  generally  conducting  herself  like  a  precious  young  fool. 
But  she  has  been  of  great  assistance  to  your  mother.  She  has 
sat  up  when  there  was  need  for  it — sat  on  this  very  chair  half 
the  night  through,  and,  in  spite  of  her  wilfulness,  showin'  an 
amount  of  wise  common-sense  and  helpfulness  that  fairly  aston- 
ished me,  though  I  knew  her  pretty  well.  So  you  mustn't  say 
hard  things  of  her — " 

"  Did  I  ?" 

"  Well,  you  spoke  bitterly,  you  know — and — and  when  you 
were  a  little  feverish,  you  know,  you  said  some  things  of  her  then 
that  made  her  cry  as  if  her  heart  would  break.  These  are  tales 
out  of  school,  you  know,  and  if  I  tell  them  to  you,  it  is  that  you 


174  KILMENY. 

mayn't  think  she  is  at  all  ungrateful  to  you  for  what  you've  done 
and  suffered  for  her.  She  has  been  here  pretty  well  night  and 
day ;  and  the  whole  lot  of  'em  have  been  just  about  as  anxious, 
and  a  pretty  to-do  I've  had  to  keep  them  from  botherin'  up  here. 
But  there's  only  your  mother  and  herself  have  the  sense  for  a 
sick-room,  that's  the  fact.  Now,  have  I  told  you  everything?  I3 
your  mind  perfectly  at  rest?  For  it's  only  rest  that  is  required 
now  to  bring  you  round,  and  you  must  have  a  good  dose  of  it. 
No  exciting  interviews  with  young  ladies,  you  know ;  no  attempts 
to  soothe  Mr.  Morell's  protestations  of  remorse — nothing  but  quiet 
and  rest.     Get  well ;  and  tackle  them  afterwards." 

All  this,  said  in  his  low,  quiet,  kind  voice,  was  so  gentle  and 
soothing,  that  in  a  few  moments  thereafter  I  again  fell  asleep. 

Next  morning  I  found  that  the  doctor  had  absolutely  forbidden 
every  one,  except  my  mother,  to  see  me  for  several  days.  I 
thought  this  a  very  hard  provision,  but  had  to  admit  the  prudence 
of  it.  However,  I  received  all  manner  of  messages  from  every  one 
around,  and  sent  them  back  replies.  Indeed,  I  lay  and  imagined 
the  various  interviews  I  should  have  with  each  of  them ;  and 
promised  to  myself  the  satisfaction  of  again  making  friends  with 
Bonnie  Lesley. 

As  it  happened,  she  was  the  first  who  was  permitted  to  see  me. 
At  the  end  of  these  few  days  it  was  proposed  that  I  should  be 
removed  to  Burnliam  House  ;  but  this  I  t)bjected  to  so  strenuously 
that  the  project  dropped.  There  was  no  urgent  reason  for  such 
a  removal.  Thanks  to  the  kindness  of  Mrs.  Toomer  and  Miss 
Burnham,  the  cottage  we  had  taken  possession  of  was  furnished 
with  every  convenience.  My  mother  slept  in  the  room  which 
had  been  intended  for  Ileatherleigh  ;  and  a  bed  had  also  been 
fitted  up  for  the  maid-servant  from  Burnham  House  who  attended 
her.  Heatherleigh  had  taken  up  his  quarters  at  Burnham  House; 
and  was,  at  my  recjucst,  going  on  with  the  whole  of  the  panel- 
lings. The  accident  which  had  happened  was  a  sad  damper  upon 
both  his  work  and  the  sports  of  the  other  guests ;  but  so  soon  as 
it  became  definitely  certain  that  my  recovery  was  only  a  question 
of  time,  a  more  cheerful  tone  got  abroad,  and  things  went  on  as 
usual  in  the  quiet  valley. 

"  Ted,"  said  my  mother,  with  a  laugh,  "  I  have  a  visitor  for 
you." 

"  Who  is  it  ?" 


SOME    REVELATIONS.  175 

"  The  most  beautiful  lady  in  the  world." 

"  Is  it  Miss  Lesley  ?" 

"  It  is  a  young  princess  out  of  a  story-book,  dressed  all  in  white 
and  blue  and  silver,  and  she  wears  a  white  hat  and  a  white  feath- 
er above  her  long  yellow  hair.     Shall  I  bid  her  come  in  ?" 

My  mother's  description  was  correct.  When  Bonnie  Lesley 
came  into  the  room,  she  did  look  like  a  princess  out  of  a  story- 
book. And  she  came  over  and  took  my  hand,  and  was  for  ac- 
cusing herself  of  all  that  had  happened,  when  I  stopped  her. 

"  It  was  a  mischance,"  I  said,  "  for  which  nobody  is  responsi- 
ble. It  was  my  carelessness  that  was  chiefly  to  blame,  in  leaving 
the  gun  about  after  I  saw  it  was  loaded." 

"  But  there  is  more  than  that  for  which  I  must  ask  your  for- 
giveness— " 

Here  she  glanced  towards  my  mother.  I  suppose  women  un- 
derstand these  mute  appeals  better  than  men  :  in  a  minute  or  two 
she  made  some  excuse  for  leaving  the  room  and  went  down- 
stairs. 

"  I  have  to  ask  your  forgiveness  for  my  conduct  over  at  Burn- 
ham  that  evening — you  know  what  I  mean.  When  I  ran  forward 
and  saw  you  lying  on  the  ground,  I  fancied  you  were  dead,  and 
the  thought  that  I  should  never  have  the  chance  of  explaining — 
of  begging  you  to  pardon  me — " 

"  That  is  all  over.     Don't  say  anything  more  about  it." 

"  But  I  must.  You  don't  know  what  it  meant ;  and  yet,  when 
I  saw  you  lying  on  the  ground,  I  resolved  that  if  ever  I  had  the 
chance  I  would  confess  everything — " 

She  seemed  very  much  distressed.  The  whole  affair  was  a 
mystery  to  me ;  yet  I  had  grown  so  accustomed  to  see  things  in 
a  kind  of  mental  fog  that  I  was  not  surprised.  Perhaps,  after 
all,  she  was  not  there  ?  Perhaps  this  beautiful  vision  was  in  real- 
ity a  vision  ?  But  again  she  began  speaking — in  a  rapid,  confused, 
painful  way. 

"  I  must  tell  you  everything  now — then  you  can  judge  whether 
we  shall  ever  meet  on  the  old  terms.  Long  ago  Mr.  Heather- 
leig-h  said  something  of  me  that  hurt  me  much.  I  needn't  tell 
you  what  led  him  to  say  it ;  but  he  said — not  to  me,  of  course, 
but  to  a  friend  of  mine — that  I  was  incapable  of  sincere  affec- 
tion, that  I  was  by  nature  frivolous  and  light,  and  unable  to 
feel  deeply ;   that  any    man    of   a   strong    and   sensitive    nature 


1*76  KILMENY. 

would  turn  from  me  as  soon  as  he  '  found  me  out,'  and  a  great 
deal  like  that.  I  cannot  explain  it  exactly ;  but  you  know  what 
he  meant." 

I  nodded ;  wondering,  at  the  same  time,  what  had  led  to  this 
strange  conduct  on  the  part  of  Heatberleigh,  and  wondering 
whether  I  should  ever  get  to  the  bottom  of  the  mystery. 

"  I  was  deeply  mortified,  and  very  angry.  Just  then  you  be- 
came acquainted  with  Mr.  Ileatherleigh.  He  took  a  great  liking 
to  you,  and  kept  praising  you  to  everybody — I  suppose  because 
you  were  in  many  things  very  like  himself.  It  was  then  —  oh! 
how  can  I  ever  tell  you  !" 

She  buried  her  face  in  her  hands.  After  a  few  minutes'  silence 
she  continued,  evidently  forcing  herself  to  speak. 

"  I  thought  it  would  show  him  how  much  he  was  mistaken  if 
you  and  I  were  to  become  great  friends ;  and  I — I  even  determined 
to  revenge  myself  upon  him  by — by  flirting  with  you.  .  .  .  You 
will  despise  me ;  I  deserve  it ;  I  despise  myself  ;  and  I  don't  know 
how  I  am  able  to  tell  you  all  this,  but  that  I  made  a  vow  that 
night  to  confess  everything  to  you,  and  beg  your  pardon.  '\\d\, 
we  did  become  great  friends,  did  we  not  ?" 

I  nodded  again. 

"  And  I — I  confess  that  I  was  many  a  time  sorry  that  it  was 
not  in  earnest,  and  many  a  time  ashamed  that  I  was  deceiving  you. 
Sometimes  I  thought  I  was  not  deceiving  you,  and  tliat  I  meant 
it  all ;  and,  then  again,  it  seemed  so  shameful,  for  you  were  al- 
ways so  honest  with  me,  and  kind.  Very  well :  you  didn't  fall 
in  love  with  me,  did  you  ?" 

There  was  a  smile  and  a  blush  on  her  face  as  she  spoke ;  but 
she  kept  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  ground. 

"  I  was  very  near,"  I  said,  rather  sadly. 

It  seemed  as  if  the  old  world  was  all  fading  away  now,  with 
the  dreams  that  were  its  chief  inhabitants.  I  could  see  it  as  a 
thing  apai't,  cut  off  from  me,  and  slowly  receding.  I  think  every 
man  experiences  at  times  flashes  and  spasms  of  consciousness, 
that  suddenly  reveal  to  him  his  position  and  his  relation  with  the 
circumstances  around  him.  These  glimpses  uf  self -revelation 
show  him  how  he  has  altered  in  a  fiw  years — how  he  lias  grown, 
without  being  aware  of  it  almost,  so  niiich  more  healthful,  or  rich, 
or  po(jr,  or  famous,  or  sad.  As  this  girl  sat  and  spoke  to  me,  the 
old  panorama   was   unrolled,  and  I  saw  all  the  stages  of  our  ac- 


SOME    REVELATIONS.  177 

quaintanceship  as  so  many  pictures.     I  was  regarding  myself  in 
the  light  of  her  revelations. 

"  Are  you  angry  with  me  ?"  she  asked. 

"  Not  at  all." 

"  You  didn't  fall  in  love  with  me,  and  I  was  vexed.  On  that 
evening  at  Bnrnham,  I  thought  I  should  at  least  provoke  you  into 
being  jealous;  and  so  I  flirted  with  Mr.  Morell,  so  that  you  must 
have  noticed  it.  I  must  have  been  mad.  I  can  scarcely  believe 
myself  when  I  look  back  over  all  these  things,  and  see  how  shame- 
fully and  cruelly  I  behaved,  I  was  terrified  beyond  measure  at 
the  result  of  my  proposal  to  play  at  ghosts.  I  thought  it  was  a 
judgment — " 

"  It  must  have  been  a  judgment,"  said  Heatherleigh,  afterwards, 
when  I  told  hiui  of  this  conversation,  "/o/-  it  fell  on  the  wrong 
person.'''' 

"  When  I  went  back  to  Burnham — none  of  us  got  home  till  the 
gray  of  the  morning — I  lay  awake  for  hours,  thinking  what  I 
could  do  to  atone  for  all  my  folly  and  cruelty ;  and  I  made  up 
my  mind  that,  on  the  very  first  opportunity,  I  would  confess  every- 
thing to  you.  I  have  done  it — I  have  debased  myself  in  your 
eyes — 1  have  humiliated  myself — " 

Suddenly,  and  to  my  great  surprise,  she  buried  her  face  in  the 
end  of  the  pillow  next  her,  and  burst  into  tears.  I  was  amazed 
beyond  belief ;  as  I  had  never  seen  Bonnie  Lesley  give  way  to  any 
violent  emotion  whatever.  Indeed  I  had  really  begun  to  doubt 
her  possession  of  any  great  sensitiveness ;  and  then  to  think  that 
one  so  beautiful  and  graceful  should  have  been  moved  in  this  way 
on  my  account !  Yet  I  looked  on  the  exhibition,  I  confess,  as  a 
sort  of  phenomenon.  She  had  herself  shattered  that  old  world 
of  foolish  hopes,  and  severed  the  frail  cord  that  bound  us,  so 
widely  separated  from  each  other,  together;  and  now  it  was  with 
more  curiosity  than  sympathy  that  I  saw  her  so  strangely  affect- 
ed. I  can  recall  that,  through  the  languor  produced  by  my  weak- 
ness, I  lazily  contemplated  the  pictorial  effect  of  her  attitude — 
the  bowed  head,  the  covered  face,  and  masses  of  yellow  hair. 

At  this  moment  my  mother  re-entered  the  room.  The  beauti- 
ful penitent  hastily  raised  her  head  and  endeavored  to  conceal  her 
tears. 

"  Will  you  take  a  biscuit  and  a  little  wine,  Miss  Lesley,  before 
you  go  ?"  said  my  mother. 

H  2 


178  KILMENY, 

This  was  merely  an  invitation  to  leave. 

"  Yes,  thank  you,"  she  said. 

She  rose,  and,  as  she  bade  me  good-bye,  she  stooped  down  and 
said — 

"  Will  you  forgive  me  cj'erything  ?" 

"  Everything.'' 

"  And  we  shall  be  better  friends  than  before,  I  think  ?" 

"  I  hope  so." 

With  that  she  left ;  and  I  spent  the  rest  of  the  day  in  dream- 
ing over  the  strange  story  she  had  told  me,  and  in  recalling  all 
the  old  scenes  and  circumstances.  Certainly,  many  a  peculiar 
feature  in  our  past  relations  became  clear.  I  remembered,  es- 
pecially, the  manner  in  which,  on  the  top  of  Lewes  Castle,  she 
had  questioned  me  about  my  possessing  the  same  tastes  and  dis- 
position as  Heatherleigh,  and  also  the  strange  fashion  in  which 
she  endeavored  to  arrive  at  my  impression  of  her  character.  I 
certainly  had  not  imagined  her  to  possess  so  much  self-conscious- 
ness as  she  had  exhihitcd,  and  sensitiveness  to  criticism.  She  was 
evidently  proud,  and  capable  of  some  persistence  in  her  notion  of 
revenging  herself. 

But  the  wound  that  had  prompted  her  to  attempt  this  revenge 
was  still  a  mystery.  What  reason  had  Heatherleigh  to  depart 
from  his  usual  courtesy  of  bearing  to  make  an  attack  upon  a  girl 
who  was,  if  not  a  friend  of  his,  a  friend  t)f  his  friend  ?  Ordinari- 
ly, Heatherleigh  was  most  generous  in  his  interpretation  of  peo- 
ple's conduct ;  given  to  seeing  the  best  side  of  their  nature ;  slow 
to  express  an  unfavorable  opinion  ;  and  ijivariably  considerate  and 
respectful,  even  chivalric,  towards  women.  Why  had  he  gone  t>nt 
of  his  way  to  sneer  at  a  girl  for  lack  of  those  qualities  which  no 
effort  on  her  part  could  have  acquircil — that  is  to  say,  presuming 
that  his  strictures  were  true,  which  I  wliully  declined  to  believe? 
Young  as  I  was,  T  had  even  then  obscrvctl  that  there  is  no  more 
common  charge  brought  against  a  woman  than  that  of  emptiness 
of  heart  and  fickleness  of  disposition,  and  the  charge  is  generally 
preferred  by  a  rejected  suitor. 

Next  morning  Mr.  Morell  came  up.  1  had  to  stop  his  protes- 
tations of  regret  also. 

"Look  here,"  I  said,  "do  you  regard  as  a  joke  the  getting  a 
ball  through  your  left  arm  and  shouhhr,  and  the  slitting  of  your 
ear  with  a  sixpciirr  f 


SOME    REVELATIONS.  179 

"  Certainly  not." 

"  Well,  it  is  fast  becoming  a  comedy.  Everybody  insists  on 
being  the  only  responsible  party ;  and,  instead  of  fighting  it  out 
among  yourselves,  you  come  and  appeal  to  me.  Sit  down,  and 
tell  me  what  you  have  done  among  the  Burnham  stubbles." 

"  Oh,  but,  damme,  you  must  let  me  tell  you  how  awfully  sorry 
I  am—" 

"  I  won't." 

"  There  never  was  such  a  beastly  idiot — " 

"  All  right." 

"  —  without  knowing  what  was  in  the  gun,  to  think  of  only 
frightening  whoever  it  might  be — " 

"  Very  well.  I'm  tired  of  hearing  about  it.  How  many  brace 
did  you  kill  next  day  ?" 

"  Well,  ril  tell  you.  None  of  us  shot  next  day.  We  mooned 
about  the  place  as  if  it  were  Sunday,  Next  day  the  same,  until 
Alfred  Burnham  proposed  billiards ;  and  the  brute  won  twenty- 
five  pounds  from  me,  confound  him.  Then  we  all  played  pool : 
Heatherleigh,  the  Colonel,  he,  and  I ;  but  it  was  only  a  shilling  the 
game  and  threepenny  lives,  and  Burnham  did  not  play  so  well.  I 
was  going  to  remark  that  all  men  are  honest  where  their  interests 
are  not  concerned  ;  but  it  wouldn't  be  appropriate,  would  it  ?  You 
can't  cheat  much  at  billiards." 

"  You  don't  suppose  Alfred  Burnham  would  cheat  ?" 

"  I  never  suppose  anything  about  so  remarkably  dark  a  horse. 
To  continue.  Miss  Burnham  was  over  here  night  and  day ;  tlie 
other  ladies  had  buried  themselves,  and  we  only  saw  them  in  the 
evening,  at  dinner.  On  the  third  day  the  ball  was  extracted  from 
your  shoulder,  and  the  doctors  told  us  you  would  get  on  all  right. 
Then  we  resolved  to  go  out  shooting." 

"  Did  Heatherleigh  go  with  you  ?" 

"  No,  he  has  been  working  hard  at  those  pictures.  When  I 
went  to  open  my  gun-case,  I  almost  felt  sick  as  I  saw  the  two  long 
barrels.  I  declare  to  you,  I  trembled  when  I  took  the  gun  in 
my  hand ;  and  when  we  began  walking  down  those  turnips  be- 
yond Burnham  Common,  I  felt  certain  I  should  kill  somebody 
through  my  nervousness.  We  had  scarcely  got  inside  the  gate 
when  up  got  a  hare — what  the  devil  it  was  doing  out  in  the  path, 
I  don't  know — almost  at  my  feet,  I  put  up  the  gun,  and,  damme, 
1  couldn't  pull  the  trigger.     The  Colonel  waited  for  a  second,  in 


180  KILMKNY. 

surprise;  and  then  up  went  his  gun  and  over  rolled  the  hare. 
The  wind  brought  a  puff  of  the  smoke  my  way,  and  I  pretty  near- 
ly got  sick  again.  You  know  what  it  is  to  smell  bad  tobacco  in 
the  morning,  when  you  have  been  making  a  night  of  it,  and  smok- 
ing four  times  as  many  cigars  as  were  good  for  you.  Well,  on 
we  went ;  I  wishing  that  I  had  the  moral  courage  to  fling  the  in- 
fernal breech-loader  over  a  hedge  and  walk  home.  Every  time  I 
shot,  I  expected  to  hear  a  cry  and  a  heavy  tumble  on  the  ground. 
I  declare  to  you  it  was  purgatory.  I  didn't  know  what  I  was  do- 
ing. I  fired  at  the  Colonel's  birds.  I  let  a  whole  covey  of  par- 
tridges go  past  within  fifteen  yards  of  me,  untouched.  I  missed 
a  hare  that  was  caught  in  the  hedge  and  stuck  there  for  a  couple 
of  seconds — " 

"  You  fired  straight  enough  when  you  fired  at  me." 

"  Yes,  idiot  that  I  was.  Well,  we  went  into  old  Toomer's  to 
have  some  bread  and  cheese  and  beer.  Mrs.  Toomer  kindly  pre- 
sided at  the  table.  I  was  so  thoroughly  upset  and  dazed  that  I 
considerably  astonished  that  stout  person. 

"  '  How  glad  you  must  be  to  get  into  the  country,  now  the  worry 
and  confusion  of  the  season  is  over,'  said  I. 

"  Probably  she  stared ;  but  I  did  not  notice. 

" '  I  presume  you  were  a  great  deal  out,'  I  continued.  '  Do 
you  go  much  to  the  opera?' 

"  You  know  Mrs.  Toomer  has  rather  a  rosy  face ;  but  wlien  I 
turned  to  look  at  her  she  was  positively  scarlet  with  rage  and  in- 
dignation. She  thought  I  was  chaffing  her  about  her  being  a  rus- 
tic. I  declare  I  never  thought  who  she  was;  but,  knowing  there 
was  a  woman  near  whom  I  ought  to  talk  to,  I  talked  the  ordinary 
nonsense  you  would  talk  to  anybody.  I  made  her  every  apology  ; 
and  told  some  monstrous  lie  about  having  believed  that  she  had 
just  come  down  from  London.  I  fancy  she  did  not  believe  me; 
and  I  wonder  she  did  not  complain  to  her  husband  about  my  im- 
pertinence." 

I  could  see  the  germ  in  this  brief  sketch  of  many  a  fine  story 
fur  Morell's  friends ;  and,  actually,  a  long  time  after,  being  at  a 
certain  club,  I  lieard  a  man  say — 

"Oh,  did  you  hear  that  devilisli  good  story  young  Brooks  told 
here  last  night?  He  had  it  from  some  writing-fellow — about  a 
swell  trying  to  get  into  conversation  with  a  farmer's  wife,  and 
talking  to  her  about  the  Row,  and  the  opera,  and  the  new  style 


SOME    REVELATIONS.  181 

of  bouquet-fans.  It  was  as  good  as  a  play  :  shouldn't  wonder  if 
the  fellow  who  told  Brooks  put  it  in  a  play." 

"  I  was  very  much  amused  by  old  Toomer,"  continued  Morell ; 
and  just  as  he  spoke,  who  should  appear  at  the  door  but  Stephen 
Toomer  himself,  accompanied  by  Heatherleigh. 

"  How  be  ye,  Mahster  Ives,  how  be  ye  ?  I  be  rare  glad  to  hear 
you  are  getting  all  right  again  ;  and  as  we  couldn't  find  the  missus 
down-stairs — " 

"  Of  course  you  came  up,"  said  Morell.  "  But  we  are  too  many 
for  a  sick-room,  so  I'm  off ;  besides  I  was  to  meet  the  Colonel 
and  his  party  at  eleven,  and  it  is  now  half-past." 

"  Where  are  you  going  shooting  to-day  ?"  I  asked. 

"  I  was  to  meet  them  a  little  beyond  Hare  Wood." 

"  Then  you  are  coming  back  to  drive  the  wood  ?" 

"  I  suppose  so." 

"  Very  well.  You  get  as  near  as  you  can  to  the  upper  side  of 
the  dell  that  lies  in  the  northeast  corner.  The  place  is  full  of 
hares,  and  they  all  make  for  that  corner,  to  get  over  to  Coney- 
bank  Wood.  Get  yourself  into  a  good  place,  and  they  will  run 
just  in  front  of  you,  either  up  the  lane  or  around  the  hedge-side 
of  the  dell." 

"  Come,  that  is  unfair,"  said  Heatherleigh.  "  If  you  were  to 
give  those  wrinkles  to  me,  who  can  only  sit  on  a  bank  in  the  twi- 
light and  pot  a  rabbit  when  it  comes  out  to  sit  on  its  hind-legs, 
and  wash  its  face  with  its  fore-paws — " 

"  And  that  bain't  easy,  ayther,"  said  Mr.  Toomer.  "  Lor,  'ow 
quick  they  be  in  catchin'  sight  o'  the  gun !  You  come  up  to  my 
fahrm,  and  I'll  show  ye  a  dozen  rahbbits  a  runnin'  out  and  in  o' 
their  'oles,  and  I'll  bet  the  coot  off  my  back  that  ye  sha'n't  'ave 
one  o'  them.     What  do  you  say,  Mahster  Ives  ?" 

"  Not  unless  you  get  into  a  sheep-trough,  with  a  sheaf  of  corn 
to  hide  your  head,  and  lie  there  for  half  an  hour." 

"And  fall  asleep,  mayhap,  like  the  mahn  as  stole  the  pig.  D'ye 
know  that  story,  Mahster  Heatherleigh  ?  It  wur  one  o'  my  grand- 
father's." 

"  No,  let  us  hear  it,  Mr.  Toomer." 

"This  mahn  was  took  up  for  stealin'  the  pig,  and  it  wur  found 
on  him — leastways  in  the  bahg  he  had  over  his  bahck.  '  Please 
your  worship,'  says  he,  '  I  never  stole  that  'ere  pig.'  '  'Ow  did 
you  come  to  'ave  it  in  your  bahg  ?'  said  his  worship.     '  Please 


182  KILMENY. 

your  worship,  tlio  rale  truth  is  I  wnr  very  tired,  and  I  went  into 
this  mahn's  pig-sty  with  my  bahg,  and  I  lay  down,  as  it  might 
be,  to  rest  mysel'.  I  fell  asleep,  your  worship,  and  I  suppose 
when  I  wur  asleep  this  ere  dahmned  pig  got  into  the  bahg.  I 
never  knowed  it  wur  there  till  the  constable  he  found  it  wur 
there.' " 

Mr.  Toomer  recited  this  story  with  profound  solemnity,  as  if  it 
were  a  collect  he  had  been  asked  to  repeat.  He  looked  remark- 
ably uncomfortable  while  telling  the  tale;  and  the  moment  it  was 
finished  he  pretended  to  be  vastly  taken  with  a  picture  of  Lon- 
don— a  sheet  out  of  some  illustrated  paper — which  Heatherlcigh 
had  nailed  up  on  the  wall. 

"  What  uncommon  sharp  folks  they  be  in  Lunnon,  to  be  sure," 
Toomer  remarked,  meditatively.  "  When  I  wur  thear  five  yur 
ago,  I  had  just  left  the  yard  where  the  bus  stopped,  and  I  went 
to  buy  a  pennorth  o'  happles  from  an  old  crectur  as  was  sellin' 
them  on  the  side  o'  the  street.  'You're  a  Buckinghamshire 
mahn,  ain't  ye?'  says  she.  '  'Ow  did  you  find  that  out,  missus?' 
said  I.  '  Why,  doan't  I  know  every  one  on  you  Buckingham- 
shire folk  by  your  he's .?'  says  she,  with  a  grin.  l>ut  I  don't  hold 
by  Lunnon." 

"  No  ?"  said  Heatherlcigh.     "  Why  that,  Mr.  Toomer  ?" 

"I  doan't  know.  1  know  as  I  doan't  like  tlic  i)laace.  T  reck- 
lect  well  wlien  T  got  on  the  top  o'  the  coach  again,  and  when  we 
wur  a-coming  out  1)y  Notting-'ill,  and  when  I  began  to  smell  the 
fields  again  by  Hacton  and  Healing,  T  turns  to  old  Joe — he  wur 
the  driver  then,  and  wur  a  great  man  for  thinkin'  hisself  a  real 
Lunnoner — '  Talk  o'  your  furrin  parts,  Joe,'  says  I,  '  but  gio  me 
Hold  England !' " 

"  What  did  he  say,  Mr.  Toomer  ?" 

"  He  wur  a  poor  creature,  was  Joe  Barton,  and  couldn't  under- 
stand what  I  meant.  He  said  as  Lunnon  was  in  Hengland  too; 
as  if  there  wur  a  man  alive  as  didn't  know  that  Lunnon  was  in 
England.  He  wur  a  sour-minded  mahn,  Joe  Barton,  and  'ud 
catch  you  up  literal-like.  Yet  he  wur  soinetliin'  of  a  scholar,  wur 
Joe;  and  they  tell  me  as  he  wur  able  to  pint  out  the  way  to  a 
Frcndi  gentleman  as  come  down  into  these  parts." 

"(}()od-bye,  everybody,"  said  Morell.  "I'm  glad  you  didn't 
put  iiic  in  for  manslaughter,  Ives.  I  liope  you'll  soon  be  well 
again." 


SOME    REVELATIONS.  183 

And  we  heard  him  go  down  the  stairs  and  out  past  the  front 
of  the  house,  humming — 

"Du  hast  meine  Uhr  unci  Kette, 
Buinirt  mein  rorte-monnaie." 

Toomer  seemed  anxious  to  go,  too,  and  yet  appeared  not  to 
know  how  to  get  out.  He  began  to  study  London  again  ;  then 
he  suddenly  seemed  to  remember  that  his  hat  was  on  the  table, 
and  might  as  well  be  on  the  chair.  Finally  he  burst  into  speech 
in  a  tone  so  solemn  that  it  startled  both  Heatherlcigh  and  myself. 

"  I  allays  said  it,  and  say  it  now,  as  it's  fur  too  yallow." 

He  looked  hard  at  Heatherleigh. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  Mr.  Toomer — " 

"  If  there's  one  thing  as  I've  said  to  ray  missus  again  and  again, 
it's  thaht ;  and  I  hold  to  it — as  the  front  is  too  yallow — " 

"  Oh,  the  front  of  Burnham  House  !" 

"Exahctly  !"  said  Mr.  Toomer,  with  a  broad  and  happy  smile 
on  his  blooming  face  ;   "  hain't  I  right,  Mahster  Heatherleigh  ?" 

"  Well,  yes,  I  fancy  it  would  do  to  be  a  shade  grayer." 

"  Ah,  look  at  that  now  !"  said  Mr.  Toomer,  turning  to  me  with 
a  triumphant  laugh.  "  Look  at  that  now  !  Haven't  I  allays  said 
as  it  wur  too  yallow ;  and  when  I  say  a  thing,  I  hold  to  it.  Lor 
bless  ye,  women  cahn't  understand  them  things.  There's  some 
things,  as  I  say  to  my  missus,  outside  of  a  woman's  comprehen- 
sion ;  and  we're  not  to  fight  agin  the  Almighty,  and  break  down 
the  barrier  as  he  has  plaaced  between  them  and  hus.  What  I've 
allays  said — and  I  hold  to  it — is  as  woman  is  shallow." 

He  looked  from  one  to  the  other  of  us ;  and  then  fixed  his  eyes 
for  a  few  seconds  on  the  picture  of  London. 

"  What  do  you  say,  Mahster  Heatherleigh  ?"  he  continued,  return- 
ing suddenly  from  the  picture.  "  Bain't  I  right?  I  say  nothin' 
agin  women — as  fur  as  they  go.  They  be  very  good — as  fur  as 
they  go.  But  I  do  say,  Mahster  Heatherleigh,  as  they're  shal- 
low." 

The  eagerness  with  which  he  courted  assent  displayed  itself  all 
over  his  fine,  broad,  bucolic  English  face. 

"  They  haven't  the  masculine  force  of  intellect,  have  they,  Mr. 
Toomer  ?"  said  Heatherleigh. 

"  Didn't  I  say  so  !"  exclaimed  Toomer,  beaming  with  delight, 
and  turning  to  me.    "  Didn't  I  say  as  they  wur  poor  creeturs,  and 


184  KILMENY. 

most  uncommon  shallow  !  Bless  ye,  a  woman  has  as  little  steady 
common-sense  in  her  as — as — as  a  stone  steeple  !" 

I  suppose  Mr.  Toomer  borrowed  this  illustration  from  the  pict- 
ure of  London,  on  which  his  eyes  were  again  fixed.  However, 
after  having  sat  a  little  time  in  profound  silence,  he  thought  of  a 
wonderful  joke  about  turnij)s,  tired  it  oflf,  and  under  cover  of  the 
smoke  made  his  exit. 

"  Now,"  said  Ileatherleigh,  "  you  must  tell  me  what  you  have 
been  doing  to  Bonnie  Lesley  ?" 

"  I  ?     Nothing." 

"  She  was  talking  of  you  last  evening  in  a  way  that  surprised 
mc.  I  grew  to  fancy  that  you  had  conferred  a  soul  upon  her — 
Undine  fashion.  I  confess  1  began  to  have  remorse  of  conscience; 
for  I  have  had  throughout  a  very  ugly  theory  of  her  relations 
with  you — " 

"  And  your  theory  was  quite  correct,"  said  L  "  It  is  only  now 
that  I  can  understand  all  the  loose  hints  you  used  to  throw  out — 
hints  that  made  mc  remarkably  angry.  Indeed,  Hcathcrleigh,  T 
will  tell  you  the  truth — I  fancied  Miss  Lesley  had  refused  you, 
or  done  you  some  sort  of  injury,  and  that  you  were  revenging 
yourself  by  dropping  these  suggestions." 

"That  y>as  turning  the  tables!"  cried  Ileatherleigh,  with  a 
hearty  laugh.  "Why,  do  you  think  I'd  have  said  anything 
about  the  poor  girl  but  to  open  your  eyes  and  save  you  from  a 
possible  catastrophe?  I  don't  blame  people  for  their  nature. 
How  can  they  help  it?  What  is  it  Burns  says  of  'Bonnie  Les- 
ley ?' — '  Nature  made  her  what  she  is;'  and  as  she  is  not  respon- 
sible, she  cannot  be  blamed.  Only  I  ventured  to  take  precautions, 
that  you,  through  your  ignorance  of  what  she  is,  might  not  suf- 
fer;  and  in  return  you  thought  me  guilty  of  a  mean  revenge, 
whereas  the  truth  is — " 

Here  he  stopped  abru|itly ;  1  looked  hard  at  him,  but  he  turned 
his  eyes  the  other  way. 

"  There  is  no  use  in  going  further  into  the  story  of  what  is 
over  and  gone;  but  how  did  you  come  to  know  that  my  theory 
was  correct  ?" 

"Because  she  (aiiic  licre  ycstcnlay,  and  confessed  everything, 
and  seemed  heartily  sorry  and  ashamed  of  herself — " 

"And  what  does  slie  propose  to  do  I)y  way  of  atonement?" 
asked  Ilcatlierleigh,  with  a  })e.culiar  smile. 


SOME    REVELATIONS.  185 

"  I  don't  see  that  she  has  anything  to  atone  for.  What  harm 
has  she  done  to  me?" 

"  Yet  I  shouldn't  wonder,"  he  said,  musingly,  "  if,  in  her  new 
fit  of  penitence,  she  were  to  coax  you  to  fall  in  love  with  her  in 
earnest.  Now  don't  flare  up  in  that  hasty  fashion  of  yours. 
Look  at  the  thing  calmly.  I  say  nothing  against  the  girl  what- 
ever :  she  has  a  rare  notion  of  doing  what  is  right,  only  she  does 
it  self-consciously,  and  with  an  obvious  effort.  She  forces  her- 
self to  be  magnanimous  in  spite  of  her  nature,  which  is  narrow. 
She  considers  what  is  good  and  generous  and  noble — in  short, 
what  she  ought  to  do  in  order  to  please  other  people  and  raise 
herself  in  their  estimation — then  she  makes  an  effort  and  does 
it.  This  effort  to  be  thought  well  of  is  the  only  thing  which 
seems  to  stir  her  at  all.  But  for  that,  one  would  think  she  had 
no  more  mind  or  judgment  or  sensitiveness  than  a  butterfly. 
She  is  as  cold  as  a  sheet  of  glass  to  all  other  impressions ;  but  if 
you  touch  her  self-esteem,  you  wound  her  to  the  quick." 

"  It  is  the  old  story,"  I  said.  "  You  interpret  every  one's  dis- 
position with  kindliness,  except  hers.  I  don't  ask  you  what  you 
have  done  to  her,  but  what  has  she  done  to  you,  that  you  should 
be  so  savage  with  her?" 

"  I  don't  think  I  am  dealing  savagely  with  her.  I  only  gave 
you  my  honest  impression  of  her  character — which  may  be  quite 
wrong.  I  began  to  believe  myself  that  it  was  wrong,  when  she 
spoke  to  me  of  you  last  evening.  I  could  scarcely  credit  that  it 
was  Bonnie  Lesley  who  spoke  to  me,  and  she  must  have  seen 
something  of  this,  for  she  said,  '  When  once  you  form  your  judg- 
ment of  people,  I  suppose  you  never  alter  it?' " 

"  And  what  did  you  answer?" 

"  Some  ordinary  compliment,  which  rather  vexed  her.  Let  us 
see  what  her  penitence  leads  to,  Ted,  before  saying  anything 
further." 

"  By  the  way,"  I  said,  "  I  wish  you  to  do  me  a  great  service." 

"  I  will,"  he  said,  "  if  it  is  not  connected  with  her.  But  I  de- 
cline entirely — " 

"  It  has  nothing  to  do  with  her.  You  remember  my  telling 
you  how  I  buried  a  half-crown  in  a  dell  many  years  ago  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"I  want  you  to  go  this  afternoon  and  dig  it  up.  You  will 
easily  find  it.    Ask  one  of  the  keepers  to  show  you  Squirrel  Dell 


186  KILMENY. 

Down  in  the  hollow  there  is  a  tall  ash-tree;  and  the  stone  I  put 
over  the  half-crown  is  only  a  yard  or  so  from  the  foot  of  the 
trunk.  Very  likely  it  is  grown  over  with  weeds  or  hidden  by 
the  bushes,  and  you  may  have  to  scrape  about  a  little.  But  if 
you  can't  find  it,  get  one  of  the  keepers  and  tell  him  I  will  give 
him  a  sovereign  if  the  half-crown  is  found,  and  we  shall  have  it 
before  the  morning." 

"  What  do  you  want  to  do  with  it,  Ted?"  said  he. 

"  Miss  Burnham  is  coming  over  here  to-morrow  morning,  and 
I  mean  to  give  it  to  her." 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

QUITS. 

I  HAVE  said  something  of  the  strange  flashes  of  consciousness 
which  suddenly  reveal  to  a  man  his  position.  They  resemble 
those  glimpses  of  half-forgotten  actions  and  words  which  a  man 
who  has  been  drinking  too  nuich  wine  after  dinner  recalls  the 
next  morning,  and  by  which  lie  can  instantaneously  picture  cer- 
tain events  of  the  evening  before  which  had  wholly  escaped  his 
memory.  It  now  occurred  to  me  as  passing  strange  that,  after  an 
interval  of  onlj  a  few  years,  I  should  be  able  to  lie  in  bod  from 
day  to  day,  and  do  nothing,  without  running  up  a  fearful  amount 
of  debt  and  earning  the  accumulated  growls  of  Weavle.  What  a 
blessed  thing  was  this  freedom,  this  independence,  which  the  pos- 
session of  a  little  money  gave!  It  seemed  very  strange  that,  in- 
stead of  having  to  work  wearily  and  economize  painfully,  one  had 
only  to  renuiin  still,  and  let  the  mysterious  agent  out-of-doors  go 
silently  on,  multiplying  sovereigns,  and  supplying  us  with  as  many 
as  our  small  needs  required. 

Was  I  n(jt  now  as  independent  as  the  people  whom  I  used  to 
envy  in  \\n\  Row?  That  evening  I  walked  around  the  Serpentine, 
with  eighty  pounds  clasped  in  my  liand,  I  was  proud  enough  ; 
and  yet  I  knew  not  how  long  the  money,  even  if  I  were  to  claim 
it,  would  la.st.  Now  I  had  a  machine  for  coining  money  ;  and  it 
went  on  day  and  night,  day  and  night,  turning  out  that  siniill 
flow  of  sovereigns,      We   li.id  to  spare.      If  I  saw  a  poor  wretc'h 


QUITS.  187 

wantinof  his  dinner,  could  I  not  give  him  five  shillincrs  and  make 
him  happy?  Walking  along  the  London  streets,  I  should  have 
in  my  pocket  the  possibility  of  rejoicing  the  heart  of  any  wretch- 
ed beggar  or  starving  child  or  needy  seamstress  whom  I  met. 
While  in  London,  I  had  scarcely  realized  all  this  to  myself. 
Here,  in  the  still  depths  of  Bucks,  I  had  time  to  scan  my  own 
position,  the  great  changes  that  had  so  naturally  and  easily  fallen 
over  my  life,  the  great  good-fortune  for  which  I  ought  to  be  so 
thankful.  And  I  thought  that  when  I  returned  to  London  I 
should  exercise  my  power,  and  go  about  the  streets  like  a  special 
Providence,  armed  with  half-crowns. 

During  these  fits  of  reflection  I  arrived  at  another  resolution. 
It  became  clear  to  me  that  I  should  never  emancipate  myself  whol- 
ly from  the  depressing  and  constraining  influences  of  my  youth 
unless  I  got  quite  away,  at  least  for  a  time,  from  England  and  all 
the  old  associations.  I  was  free  (except  in  dreams)  from  the  tyr- 
anny of  W^eavle ;  but  I  was  still  bound  hard  and  fast  by  certain 
notions  which  seemed  to  me  peculiarly  of  English  growth.  I  was 
more  a  gamekeeper's  son  than  an  independent  human  being  to 
the  people  around  me — a  small  sort  of  prodigy,  who  had  so  far 
raised  himself  above  what  ought  to  have  been  his  lot.  Now  I 
wanted  to  go  into  some  other  country — should  it  be  America, 
where  the  free  fight  of  humanity  is  at  its  frankest? — to  assert 
myself  as  a  man  among  men.  To  break  asunder  the  old  influ- 
ences, to  engage  in  the  grand  levelling  process  of  competition,  and 
actually  discover  for  myself  my  own  value — that  was  the  purpose 
I  now  formed  in  these  long  days  at  Burnham,  with  the  breath  of 
the  winter  already  telling  on  the  autumn  air. 

Naturally,  I  began  to  chafe  against  the  necessity  which  confined 
me  to  bed,  much  as  Heatherleigh  counselled  patience,  and  pointed 
out  that  I  ought  to  wait  to  see  what  effect  my  "  Kilmeny  "  might 
have  in  the  Academy. 

"  Do  you  think,  then,"  said  I,  "  that  it  is  sure  to  be  admit- 
ted?" 

"  Certain,"  he  said,  decisively ;  "just  as  certain  as  that  everybody 
will  recognize  the  likeness." 

"  I  hope  not,"  I  said. 

"  Why  ?" 

There  was  no  particular  answer  to  the  question ;  although  the 
notion  of  this  picture  being  hung  on  the  Academy  walls,  and 


looked  at  by  many  people  whom  I  knew,  provoked  several  strange 
suggestions. 

But  before  telling  the  fate  of  "  Kilmeny,"  I  must  say  a  word 
about  the  visit  which  Hester  Burnham  and  Madame  Laboureau 
paid  me. 

Heatherleigh  had,  without  much  difficulty,  found  the  old,  dis- 
colored coin  which  I  had  buried  in  the  dell  years  before.  I  looked 
at  it  with  many  peculiar  emotions,  and  with  some  faint  reflex  of 
the  feeling  which  prompted  me  to  wreak  my  wrath  on  an  unof- 
fending piece  of  silver.  I  remembered  again  the  bitter  humiliation 
I  suffered  when  Miss  Hester  offered  to  take  back  the  money,  and 
when  I  found  myself  unable  to  give  it  to  her.  We  had  become 
more  intimate  since  then  ;  but  I  dared  never  revert  to  this  subject. 
Indeed,  the  mere  thought  of  it  at  any  time  was  sufficient  to  break 
down  the  frail  bridge  of  acquaintanceship  that  had  been,  with 
much  uncertainty  and  diffidence,  established  between  us.  With 
more  of  years,  of  judgment,  and  reflection,  I  might  have  treasured 
that  poor  coin  as  the  witness  to  the  existence  in  the  world  of  at 
least  one  true,  kind  heart:  as  it  was,  I  hated  it,  and  wished  that  I 
could  bury  it  in  oblivion,  even  as  I  had  buried  it  in  Squirrel  Dell, 
with  all  the  bitter  recollections  of  that  memorable  day. 

When  Hester  Burnham  came  into  the  room,  she  was  very  pale, 
and  there  was  that  strange  glow  in  her  dark  gray -blue  eyes  that 
testified  to  the  presence  of  some  strong  emotion.  Very  pale  she 
was,  and  beautiful ;  and  the  look  of  her  face  had  a  tenderness  in 
it  which  was  obviously  febrile,  uncertain,  ready  to  break  into  tears. 
Yet  the  quiet  little  wonian,  with  that  wonderful  grace  and  carriage 
of  hers,  came  over  and  timidiv  took  my  hand.  I  think  she  spoke 
a  good  deal  in  a  low,  tremulous  voice,  but  I  only  vaguely  knew  its 
purport.  There  was  something  so  extraordinarily  sweet  in  the 
voice  that  you  were  glad  to  listen  to  the  music  of  it  without 
barkening  to  the  words.  You  could  so  easily  read  the  emotions 
that  the  thrilling,  low,  soft  tones  expressed,  that  you  forgot  to 
think  of  words  and  sentences.  The  delight  of  hearing  her  speak 
seemed  to  blind  one  to  the  sense  of  what  she  said ;  and  yet  you 
found  afterwards  that  you  had  followed  her  all  through  her  pret- 
ty entreaties,  her  j)rotcstations,  her  tenderly  expressed  wishes.  I 
should  like  to  have  shut  my  eyes,  and  lain  and  listened  to  that 
strangely  sweet  voice  forever. 

Madame;  Laboureau  speedily  broke  the  spell  with  lier  briglit, 


QUITS.  189 

quick  chatter,  and  her  dramatic  expressions  of  jirofound  sympathy. 
Of  course,  I  was  in  her  eyes  a  wonderful  creature — a  hero.  I  had 
saved  Miss  Hester's  life.  I  had  been  severely  wounded  in  doing 
so.     I  might  have  been  killed — 

"  That  would  have  been  more  romantic,"  I  said,  interrapting 
her,  "  and  a  more  appropriate  end  to  the  adventure,  wouldn't  it  ? 
As  it  stands,  the  play  has  lasted  too  long  already ;  and  you  can't 
expect  to  have  people  wait  to  see  a  fifth  act  that  extends  over  sev- 
eral months,  and  is  played  in  a  sick-room." 

"  But  it  is  too  serious  for  a  play,"  she  said,  shaking  her  head, 
"  though  I  am  glad  to  see  you  improving  yourself  much.  You 
must  keep  still,  and  have  no  excitations — then  you  may  much 
sooner  be  sound  again.  And  when  you  can  Miss  Hester  hopes 
you  will  come  up  to  Burnham  and  make  perfect  your — your 
guerison  there.  The  room  is  all  prepared — it  is  better  than  this 
old  house." 

"  lam  sure  I  am  much  obliged  to  Miss  Burnham,  and  to  you, 
Madame,"  I  said ;  "  but  as  soon  as  I  can  move,  I  must  go  back  to 
London." 

"  You  will  not  think  of  that !"  said  Miss  Burnham,  suddenly. 

She  liad  been  sitting  quite  silent,  still  apparently  a  little  pale 
and  excited,  and  with  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  floor.  Now  she  looked 
up,  with  surprise  visible  in  them. 

"  The  winter  exhibitions  will  be  open  shortly.  If  I  have  been 
able  to  do  nothing  myself,  I  must  see  what  others  have  been  doing." 

"  But  you  have  one  picture  ?"  she  said,  turning  her  eyes  upon  me. 

I  dared  not  meet  that  glance,  lest  there  should  be  a  question  in 
it.     I  said  to  her — 

"  Yes,  I  have  a  picture  that  Heatherleigh  thinks  might  do  with- 
out further  finishing.  If  I  cannot  work  between  this  and  then,  I 
may  send  it  as  it  is,  to  take  its  chance  of  the  Academy.  But  who 
told  you  of  it  ?" 

"  Mr.  Morell ;  and  he  thinks  it  will  make  a  great  impression." 

"  He  may  think  so,"  I  said,  "  for  he  hasn't  seen  it." 

"  Oh,  he  has  not  seen  it  ?"  she  asked,  quickly. 

"  No." 

"  Mais  c'est  un  veritable  prodige,  ce  monsieur,"  said  Madame. 
"  He  knows  everything,  everybody  ;  he  has  been  everywhere ;  he 
can  do  anything,  except  play  the  German  music.  Oh !  he  plays 
Beethoven  as  if  it  was  Gung'l.  and  Mozart  as  if  it  was  Offenbach. 


190  KILMENY. 

I  cannot  bear  him  then ;  but  at  other  times  he  is  charming.  And 
your  Bonnie  Lesley  thinks  so,  does  she  not  ?" 

Madame  appealed  to  her  companion,  who  did  not  answer. 

"  Mr.  Morell  may  be  able  to  speak  of  the  picture  without  hav- 
ing seen  it,"  said  I ;  "  but  if  he  had  exercised  his  miraculous 
po'vers  of  vision  before  firing  through  a  certain  tree — " 

"  That  is  a  mystery !"  exclaimed  Madame,  decisively.  "  Did  he 
think  the  gun  was  not  loaded?  Did  he  fire  only  to  frighten  who- 
ever was  playing  tricks?  Or  did  he  believe  in  the  spirits,  and  fire 
at  them?  I  have  never  been  able  to  comprehend,  so  raj^d  he  talks 
on  that  subject.  He  is  so  anxious  to  explain,  he  is  to  me  unintel- 
ligible.    And  he  goes  back  to  town  to-morrow." 

"  He  does  ?" 

"Yes;  he  says  he  cannot  bear  to  remain  here,  after  the  accident. 
And  soon  we  shall  have  all  our  party  broken  away,  and  be  alone 
again ;  and  so  it  would  be  quiet  for  you  if  you  come  to  Burn- 
ham—" 

Here  my  mother,  who  had  been  over  to  Great  Missenden,  came 
up-stairs,  and  was  at  once  attacked  by  Madame  Laboureau  on  the 
subject  of  my  removal  to  Burnham  House.  Sheltered  by  their 
brisk  talk,  Miss  Hester  stole  over  to  my  side,  and  said,  with  her 
eyes  cast  down — 

"  I  hope  you  will  come  to  Burnham.  There  is  so  little  that  I 
can  do  to  show  you  how  grateful  I  am — how  impossible  it  is  for 
me  to  say — " 

"  You  need  say  nothing,"  I  said  to  her.  "  Do  you  remember, 
a  good  many  years  ago,  your  making  me  your  debtor  to  the  extent 
of  half  a  crown  ?" 

She  raised  her  eyes  suddenly,  and  there  was  reproach  tliere, 
with  a  touch  of  pain  aiul  even  of  indignation. 

"You  bring  that  up  again,"  she  said  bitterly.  "Is  the  mistake 
of  a  girl,  of  a  cliild,  to  last  tliioiiiih  a  lifetime?  You  know  how 
that  misadventure  has  made  strangers  of  us  all  this  time;  but  I 
thought  you  had  at  last  alhnved  it  to  be  ft)rgottcii.  Vou  revive  it 
Ui)\\  to  pain  iiu — perhaps  to  insult  nic.  It  is  nut  fair — I  do  not 
deserve  it — " 

"Do  you  tliiiik  it  was  for  that  purpose  I  revived  the  old  story?" 
1  said,  looking  at  her.  "  When,  not  knowing  what  I  did,  1  took 
the  n)oiiey  you  gave  me,  1  carried  it  over  to  l>uniliani,  and  buried 
it  there  in  the  ground.      When  you  (.itTereil  to  take  it  back  again, 


A    WILD    GUESS.  191 

I  could  not  give  it  to  you ;  and  I  was  too  proud  to  take  it  to  you 
afterwards.  It  has  lain  there  until  yesterday ;  but  I  have  it  in 
my  hand  now ;  and  I  have  it  that  I  may  give  it  back  to  you,  if 
you  will  take  it." 

"You  want  to  make  me  altogether  your  debtor,"  she  said,  with 
a  strange,  sad  smile,  as  she  took  the  tarnished  silver  coin,  and  looked 
at  it  wistfully.     "  I  am  not  so  proud  as  you  are,  I  think." 

She  opened  her  purse,  and  took  the  accursed  bit  of  money,  and 
laid  it — almost  tenderly,  I  fabcied — in  the  crimson  silk.  As  she 
left,  she  stealthily  pressed  my  hand,  and  both  of  us  knew  from 
that  moment  that  henceforth  we  were  nearer  to  each  other. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

A    WILD    GUESS. 

"  I  AM  not  SO  proud  as  you  are,  I  think."  The  phrase  lingered 
long  with  me  in  these  dull  days,  while  I  waited  and  wearied  for  the 
coming  time  of  action.  For  already  I  smelt  the  wintry  air — the 
cold,  misty  flavor  in  the  atmosphere  that  tells  of  the  close,  dark 
winter,  the  long  nights  and  hard  work.  The  glorious  Bucking- 
hamshire autumn  slipped  by  me  unnoticed.  I  saw  none  of  the 
glare  of  color  that,  as  I  knew,  lay  along  the  far  beech-woods,  while 
the  red  sunsets  burned  over  the  stripped  harvest-fields  and  the 
brown  ploughed  lands.  I  saw  none  of  the  gradual  change  from 
olive  green  to  the  glowing  gold  and  crimson  that  make  these  hills 
a  wonder ;  for,  when  I  was  able  to  go  out,  the  time  of  hoar-frost, 
and  morning  mist,  and  cold  coppery  sunlight  had  arrived,  and  the 
day  was  sluggish  and  heartless  and  short.  All  the  more  I  hungered 
for  the  life  and  activity  of  London — for  the  joyous  gas-lamps,  and 
the  quick  stir  of  labor,  the  comfort  of  warm  rooms,  and  the  in- 
tense pleasure  of  work  well  done.  Every  one  had  gone  from 
Burnham  House  now,  except  Miss  Hester  and  her  small,  bright 
French  friend  and  companion.  Morell  had  speedily  left,  and  had 
sent  me  many  a  chatty,  vivacious  letter,  and  many  a  journal,  for- 
eign and  domestic  ;  Bonnie  Lesley  and  the  Lewisons  were  again  at 
Regent's  Park ;  Heatherleigh  had  finished  the  panels,  and  had  re- 
turned to  assiduous  labor  in  Granby  Street ;  Alfred  Burnham  had 


192  KILMENY. 

gone  I  know  nut  wliore— his  father  likewise.  Only  Miss  llestei 
lingered  here,  and  wandered  about  tlie  still,  cold  park,  or  rode 
down  the  rimy  lanes  in  the  morning  air,  when  the  scarlet  hips 
and  the  ruddy  haws  were  frosted  with  white,  and  when  the  strug- 
gling sun  had  just  managed  to  melt  the  hoar-frost  on  the  spiders' 
webs,  and  change  them  to  strings  of  incrusted,  gleaming  jewels. 
Red  and  crisp  were  the  leaves  that  still  hung  on  the  trees,  while 
those  that  lay  rotting  in  the  damp  woods  were  orange  and  brown 
and  black.  The  tall,  broad  brackens,  too,  that  had  a  few  weeks 
ago  turned  from  a  dark  green  to  a  pale  gold,  were  getting  sombre 
and  limp ;  while  everywhere  in  the  woods  frosted  berries  came  to 
be  visible  along  the  bare,  leafless  stalks  of  braml)le  and  dog-rose, 
of  rowan  and  elder  and  white-thorn.  It  was  a  cold,  cheerless  time 
out  here  for  any  one  who  was  not  after  the  pheasants  of  Burn- 
ham  woods,  or  the  hares  that  lay  out  on  the  hill-sides  ;  and  it  often 
seemed  to  me,  looking  down  the  cold,  still  valley,  witli  the  yellow, 
wintry  sunshine  glimmering  along  the  dull  fields  and  the  voiceless 
farmsteads,  that  I  could  hear  the  low,  hurried  throb  of  London  life, 
and  the  murmur  of  its  innumerable  wheels. 

At  length  the  time  arrived  when  I  was  able  to  undertake  tlie 
journey.  I  wished  to  say  good-bye  to  Hester  Burnham,  and 
while  I  was  still  debating  whether  to  venture  upon  walking  across 
to  Burnliam  House,  she  and  Madame  Laboureau  made  their  ap- 
pearance. They  had  made  several  calls  of  a  like  nature  before, 
and  were  aware  that  I  purposed  going  to  London,  but  both  of 
them  seemed  surprised  when  I  now  informed  them  that  I  should 
leave  next  day. 

"You  ought  not  to  go  yet,"  said  Miss  Hester,  quietly,  lier  eyes 
turned  the  other  way. 

"You  will  not  allow  it,  Mrs.  Ives,  will  you?''  saiti  Madainc. 

By  and  by,  however,  when  they  saw  tliat  our  depart uic  had 
alrea<ly  been  settled,  they  were  anxious  that  they  should  help  a 
little  towards  our  comfortable  travelling. 

"Did  you  mean  to  go  up  by  tie  eoadi,  or  by  the  train  from 
Wycombe?"  asked  Miss  Hester,  of  my  mother. 

"  We  thought  there  would  be  less  jolting  by  the  eoa(;h,  and 
there  is  a  cab  ordered  to  come  over  from  Missenden  to-morrow 
morning  for  us." 

''  lint  the  eoaeh  goes  very  early,  does  it  not?"  asked  Madame. 

"  Seven." 


A    WILD    GUESS.  193 

"  And  you  leave  here — " 

"  About  six." 

"  Men  Dieu  !  In  the  dark  of  a  winter  morning  !  Is  that  prop- 
er travelling  for  an  invalid  ?" 

"  I  hope,  Mrs.  Ives,"  said  Miss  Burnhani,  "  that  you  will  let  me 
send  a  carriage  for  you.  It  will  be  so  much  better  that  you 
should  start  at  any  hour  you  please,  and  go  all  the  way  in  one 
velucle,  without  the  bother  of  changing.  Besides  the  jolting,  you 
will  have  the  draughts  and  discomfort  of  both  the  cab  and  the 
Missenden  coach  ;  while,  on  the  other  hand,  if  you  let  me  send  a 
carriage  for  you,  you  may  make  a  leisurely  day's  journey  of  it,  and 
Cracknell  may  come  down  again  the  next  day,  or  the  day  after." 

"  I  could  not  think  of  such  a  thing.  Miss  Hester,"  said  my 
motlier,  who  knew  how  seldom  that  luxury  had  been  indulged  in 
even  by  the  Burnhams  themselves  since  the  opening  of  the  rail- 
way. 

"  Then  I  must  appeal  to  you,"  said  Hester  Burnham,  turning 
to  me,  with  her  frank  eyes. 

Why,  her  manner  had  something  of  a  challenge  in  it.  Her 
regard  seemed  to  say,  "  Two  months  ago  you  and  I  buried  the 
old  feud  between  us,  and  promised  to  be  friends.  Show  that  it 
is  so."     I  accepted  "the  challenge,  and  replied  to  her  frank  look — 

"  Sha'n't  you  want  the  carriage  or  the  horses  for  a  day  or 
two  ?" 

"  Certainly  not.     I  never  drive  now  ;  I  always  ride." 

"  Then,  since  you  are  so  kind,  we  shall  be  very  glad  to  accept 
your  offer.  Only,  I  hope  we  are  not  disturbing  your  arrange- 
ments in  any  way." 

You  would  have  thought,  from  her  bright,  quick  look  of  grat- 
itude, that  I  had  conferred  a  favor  on  her ;  but  it  was  only  her 
pleasure  at  seeing  that  I  understood  the  implied  challenge  she 
had  thrown  down. 

Next  morning,  about  ten  o'clock,  just  as  the  sun  was  beginning 
to  thaw  the  gray  and  frosty  roughness  of  the  morning,  the  car- 
riage was  driven  up  the  avenue  of  bare  limes  to  the  Major's  door. 
I  was  surprised  to  see  Miss  Hester  and  Madame  Laboureau  alight. 

"  You  must  have  got  up  as  early  as  we  intended  to  do,"  said  I. 

"  We  wished  to  see  you  off,"  said  she,  simply  ;  and  then  she 
turned  to  my  mother  to  say  that,  as  the  hostelries  between  Burn- 
ham  and  London  were  mainly  of  a  dubious  kind,  she  had  sent 

I 


194  KILMENV. 

with  the  carriage  something  in  the  way  of  hniclieon.  Tliis,  as  wi 
afterwards  found,  was  a  modest  way  of  representing  tlie  wonderful 
|)reparations  slie  had  eaiised  to  be  made  for  us.  A  very  good 
friend  of  mine  is  accustomed  to  point  out  tlie  curious  fact  tliat 
men  who  never  ride  a  horse,  or  expect  to  ride  a  liorse,  are  in  tlie 
habit  of  carrying  about  with  them  for  years  an  instrument,  at- 
tached to  their  pocket-knife,  for  picking  stones  out  of  a  horse's 
hoof.  There  was  something  of  the  same  extravagant  forethought 
in  the  arrangements  which  Hester  Burnham  liad  made  about  our 
day's  journey  to  London,  vvhicli  might  have  been  meant,  so  far  as 
they  were  concerned,  for  a  week's  travelling  in  Norway ;  and  yet 
who  could  even  make  fun  over  these  incongruities  of  a  great 
tlioughtfulness  and  kindness!  When  I  did  venture  to  suggest, 
during  the  journey,  that  Miss  Hester  might  liave  added  to  our 
stores  a  coffee-grinding  machine,  a  patent  ])ercolator,  and  a  spirit- 
lamp,  my  mother  seemed  much  hurt,  and  remarked  that  we  could 
not  have  been  better  provided  for  had  we  been  })rinces.  It  was, 
however,  my  first  essay  in  ti'avelling  a  la  mode  Je  prince ;  and  I 
had  to  learn  that  even  royalty  must  submit  to  conditions. 

"  Au  revoir — bon  voyage !"  said  Madame,  as  the  carriage  door 
was  closed. 

"  We  shall  see  you  in  London,  shall  we  not?"  said  Hester  Burn- 
ham,  looking  to  my  mother ;  then  she  said  good-bye  to  me,  in 
her  simple,  direct  fashion,  and  we  drove  off. 

As  we  gained  the  main  road  near  Misscnden,  1  put  my  head 
out  of  the  carriage  window  and  looked  along  the  spacious  valley 
towards  Burnham.  Far  up  on  the  opposite  heights,  near  the 
margin  of  Coney-bank  Wood,  where  the  morning  sun  was  shim- 
mering palely  along  the  hill,  I  s.iw  two  figures.  1  tliink  they  were 
standing  and  looking  back.  I  waved  a  handkerchief  to  them; 
and  one  of  them  —  presumably  Madame  —  tiuttered  something 
white  in  return.  That  was  the  last  1  saw  of  Hester  Jhindiam  for 
many  a  day. 

There  was  more  of  hard  study  than  of  anibilious  effort  for  me 
during  tlie  remainder  of  that  winter.  1  attended  a  certain  life- 
class,  where  models,  of  no  very  intellectual  type  of  beauty,  of  both 
sexes,  and  of  various  degrees  of  costume,  stood  on  the  raised 
platform,  or  sat,  on  cold  nights,  upon  a  warm  stove,  to  be  roughly 
outlined  and  colored  by  the  busy  young  men  wlio  sat  in  a  semi- 
circle before  tlieiii.      The  room  was  not  a  larixe  one,  and  the  i^lare 


A    WILD    GUESS.  195 

of  gas,  with  the  stove  which  was  necessary  to  keep  alive  the  (when 
clad)  thinly  clad  models,  rendered  the  atmosphere  a  not  particu- 
larly healthy  one.  Indeed,  what  with  that,  and  other  stiidies  which 
I  could  not  help  myself  following,  I  felt  that  I  was  just  hovering 
on  the  verge  of  my  slowly  accumulating  strength,  and  that  some 
caution  was  necessary  to  prevent  a  collapse  and  catastrophe. 

Despite  the  entreaties  of  Heatherleigh  and  Polly  Whistler,  I 
sometimes  fell  to  working  a  little  at  the  "  Kilmeny,"  as  it  seemed 
impossible  to  me  that  a  picture  with  so  little  real  labor  in  it  could 
be  worth  much.  But  at  length  I  resolved  to  leave  it  as  it  stood, 
and  let  it  take  its  chance.  Many  of  my  fellow-students,  and  of 
Heatherleigh's  maturer  artistic  friends,  had  seen  it,  and  were  suf- 
ficiently hopeful.  But  artists  are  singularly  devoid  of  the  vice  of 
meaningless  flattery  when  called  upon  to  judge,  ex  officio,  of  the 
work  of  a  friend.  They  talk  of  your  weak  points  with  an  incor- 
rigible frankness,  while  pointing  out  quite  as  frankly  what  they 
consider  the  strong  points  of  the  work.  On  the  whole,  I  was 
fairly  satisfied  with  its  chance  of  acceptance ;  although  inwardly 
I  chafed  at  not  being  able,  through  want  of  experience  in  manip- 
ulation, to  make  it  what  I  saw  it  ought  to  be. 

Under  Heatherleigh's  auspices  I  had  become  a  member  of  the 
Sumner  Society — a  society  of  artists  who  held,  and  still  hold,  a 
little  half-private,  half-public  exhibition  of  their  pictures  prior  to 
their  being  sent  to  the  Academy.  "  Kilmeny,"  having  been  prop- 
erly framed  and  labelled,  was  left  at  the  rooms  of  the  society,  and 
as  the  evening  drew  near  when  the  exhibition  was  to  come  off,  I 
waited  with  a  burning  anxiety  to  see  how  it  would  look  hung  up 
on  a  wall,  among  other  pictures  painted  by  men  of  renown.  I 
got  so  to  fear  this  ordeal,  that  I  could  scarcely  muster  up  courage 
to  accompany  Heatherleigh  on  the  night  of  the  display. 

We  went  first  to  a  tavern  in  Oxford  Street,  near  the  corner  of 
Regent  Street,  which  was  then  much  frequented,  as  a  chop-house, 
by  members  of  the  society.  Here  we  found  a  goodly  company 
of  artists — always  distinguishable  by  the  preponderance  of  vel- 
veteen coats,  which  seem  to  hit  the  artistic  fancy  as  powerfully 
as  seal-skin  waistcoats  appeal  to  the  journalistic  taste — engaged 
in  the  different  phases  of  dining,  drinking,  and  smoking,  A 
bronzed,  intelligent,  manly  looking  lot  of  men  they  were,  with 
their  slovenly  dress,  their  quick  jest,  their  hearty  laugh.  More 
than  any  other  men,  I  think,  artists  enjoy  the  means  by  which 


196  KILMENY. 

they  make  their  bread;  and  tliey  bring  back  from  the  country 
with  them,  along  with  good  spirits  and  a  capital  appetite,  a  rare 
fund  of  good  stories  and  jokes,  and  bits  of  character  observation. 
The  shop,  it  is  true,  is  a  little  too  much  with  them  ;  but  when 
they  get  out  of  that,  there  are  no  such  nien  for  boon  companions 
— their  intellect  quickened  by  much  seeing,  their  habit  of  life 
eminently  sociable  and  enjoyable.  But  they  are  better  company 
to  others  than  to  themselves  ;  for  the  long  evenings,  devoted 
chiefly  to  talk,  at  last  get  to  the  end  of  a  man's  jokes  and  stories. 
It  used  to  be  the  pride  of  the  Sumuers  to  defy  any  outsider  to 
tell  them  a  new  story ;  but  that  proficiency  was  purchased  dearly 
by  the  dearth  of  novelty  among  themselves.  Now  and  again  a 
man  did  introduce  a  fresh  anecdote ;  and  then  it  was  accurately 
measured,  judged,  and  laid  on  the  shelf.  I  should  like  to  write 
a  good  deal  about  the  frank  fellowship,  the  unworidliness,  the 
rough,  practical,  healthy  joyousness  of  artistic  society  in  general ; 
but  all  that  has  been  described  by  abler  pens  than  mine — by  men 
who,  being  entirely  outside  of  it  and  unconnected  with  it,  could 
better  appreciate  its  peculiarities  than  I. 

Certainly  there  was  no  want  of  talk,  for  several  of  the  men 
now  met  for  the  first  time  after  their  summer  and  autumn  wan- 
derings. There  were  stories  of  eccentric  farmers'  wives  in  Sussex, 
of  adventures  in  the  Ross-shire  glens,  of  fishing-nights  off  the 
Devon  coast.  But  the  grand  current  of  the  talk,  of  course,  set 
in  towards  the  forthcoming  Academy,  and  there  were  plenty  of 
hazardous  prophecies  and  strenuous  opinions  about  the  great 
works  which  were  known  to  be  yet  on  the  easel.  One  or  two  of 
those  present  had  not  finished  their  pictures — were  actually  fight- 
ing against  time  during  these  last  few  days — and  were,  one  could 
fancy,  less  noisy  and  joyous  than  their  companions  who  had  their 
labors  consummated  and  off  their  minds. 

Shortly  after  eight  o'clock,  a  general  movement  was  made  to 
the  chambers,  situated  in  the  neighborhood,  in  which  the  tem- 
porary exhibition  wjis  to  be  held.  They  were  two  long,  narrow 
rooms,  which  were  ordinarily  used  for  drawing-classes,  and  from 
the  dusky  corners  and  gloomy  shelves  which  were  not  covered  by 
the  new  pictures  there  gliinriicrtMl  otit  fragments  of  plaster  casts 
— a  bust  of  Jiij)iter  with  marked  lines  <jf  spider-webs  about  it, 
the  ubiquitous  disk-thrower,  the  broken-armed  and  reclinmg  The- 
beus,  the  wavv-haired  and  calm  browed  Venus  of  Milo,  witli  here 


A    WILD    GUESS.  19/ 

and  there  an  arm  or  a  leg  finely  shaded  with  dust.  Down  the 
middle  of  the  two  long  rooms  went  a  double  screen,  on  which 
pictures  were  also  hung,  the  passage  between  it  and  the  walls  be- 
ing so  narrow  that  anything  like  rapid  circulation  on  the  part  of 
those  who  now  entered  the  place  was  clearly  impossible. 

Heatherleigh  seemed  not  to  look  out  for  his  own  pictures  at 
all.  When  our  eyes  had  got  accustomed  to  the  glare  of  the  gas 
and  the  gilt  frames,  he  carefully  glanced  around  the  walls. 

"It  is  not  in  this  room,  at  all  events,"  he  said. 

"  Do  you  mean  '  Kilmeny  V  " 

"  Yes,"  said  he,  struggling  through  the  crowd  that  had  already 
wedged  itself  into  the  narrow  apertures. 

We  had  just  got  to  the  door  dividing  the  two  chambers  when 
Heatherleigh,  looking  far  over  the  heads  before  him,  exclaimed — 

"  By  Jove,  it  '  shines  where  it  stands !'  " 

A  moment  after  I  caught  sight  of  "  Kilmeny,"  and  started  as 
if  I  had  seen  a  ghost.  For  now  there  could  be  no  doubt  of  the 
likeness  of  which  Heatherleigli  had  spoken.  I  had  tried  to  blind 
myself  to  the  fact;  and,  in  the  solitude  of  my  own  room,  I  had 
gazed  at  the  face  until  I  had  convinced  myself  that  it  was  not  that 
other  face.  But  here  the  picture  seemed  beyond  any  thwarted 
interpretation.  It  stood  up  there,  at  the  head  of  the  room — 
scarcely  veiled  by  the  mist  of  yellow  light  through  which  I  saw 
it — as  a  definite  witness,  and  looked  down  upon  me,  as  I  fancied, 
accusingly.  I  moved  nearer.  There  were  some  men  round  it, 
and  they  were  criticising  the  picture  freely.  Heatherleigh  called 
out  to  one  of  them,  and  this  had  the  effect  of  announcing  our 
approach,  so  that  I  fortunately  missed  hearing  what  they  said. 
Now,  out  of  mere  modesty,  a  man  may  not  stare  at  his  own  pict- 
ure in  an  exhibition-room  ;  and  I  was  forced  to  turn  away.  Yet 
it  seemed  to  me  that  the  eyes  of  it  followed  me  with  a  mute  re- 
proach. It  was  no  longer  Kilmeny.  It  was  a  beautiful,  sweet 
face  that  I  was  familiar  with,  and  it  said,  "  Why  have  you  put  me 
up  here,  among  all  these  people  ?"  The  unconscious  wonder  of 
Kilmeny's  eyes  was  gone.  There  was  no  more  unearthly  lustre  in 
them  ;  but  the  wise,  sweet  look  of  the  face  that  I  knew ;  and  I 
felt  ashamed  of  the  profanation. 

"  Why,"  said  Heatherleigh,  "  you  don't  seem  proud  of  the  place 
you  have  got,  or  of  the  notice  they  are  taking  of  the  picture.  It 
holds  its  own,  I  can  tell  you." 


198  KILMENY. 

"  I  wish  I  could  whitewash  it,"  said  I ;  "  I  never  saw  that  like- 
ness until  now." 

"  You  must  have  been  blind,  then.  But  here  is  a  man  coming 
towards  us  who  is  competent  to  speak  on  the  subject.  He  is 
some  sort  of  a  half-cousin  of  hers — Mr.  Webb." 

"  The  Webb  who  is  member  for  Gosworth — who  married  the 
Earl  of 's  daughter?" 

"  Yes.  He  and  Lady  Louisa  used  to  be  great  patrons  of  mine, 
until,  I  think,  they  were  disgusted  because  I  was  not  anxious  to 
become  famous  under  their  tutelage." 

Mr.  Webb  was  a  tall,  thin  man,  witli  a  gray,  careworn  face, 
sunken  gray  eyes,  a  black  wig,  and  an  eye-glass  whicli  he  kept 
nervously  twitching  about.  He  spoke  in  a  hasty,  confused  man- 
ner, and  had  an  odd  fashion  of  not  looking  at  you  until  he  had 
got  out  the  last  word  of  the  sentence,  and  then  he  glanced  up  as 
if  to  drive  the  sentence  home.  When  I  had  been  introduced  to 
him,  and  when  he  had  studied  the  picture  for  some  considerable 
time,  he  muttered  to  himself,  "Very  good  —  very  good  —  very 
good ;"  and  then  he  turned  sharply  to  me,  with  his  eyes  glancing 
towards  his  boots — 

"  Did  she  sit  for  this  likeness  ?" 

"  No." 

"  Striking  likeness — very  striking  likeness.  Have  you  sold  the 
picture  ?" 

"  No,"  said  L  "  Nor  do  I  mean  to  sell  it,  if  it  is  as  clearly  a 
likeness  as  you  say." 

This  time  he  did  look  up,  and  fixed  his  sunken  gray  eyes  on 
me  in  a  curious  way,  as  he  said,  slowlv — 

"May  I  venture  to  ask  why  you  have  taken  that  resohition?" 

"Why,  merely  that  I  have  no  right  to  sell  a  portrait  of  any- 
body without  his  or  her  consent.  Surely  that  is  a  siiflicient  rea- 
son. I  did  not  know  it  was  so  much  of  a  likeness  until  I  was 
informed  of  it — or  T  should  not  have  sent  it  here  even." 

"  That  is  (jiiite  right — very  right,"  he  said  ;  "  but  your  objection 
to  sell  it — if  otherwise  you  would  sell  it — does  not  apply  to  me. 
You  may  call  it  a  family  picture.  But  it  is  not  as  a  likeness  that 
I  wish  to  have  it.  What  do  you  say — what  do  you  say?  Per- 
haps we  ought  to  have  a  little  talk  over  it,  if  you  don't  mind  the 
trouble.  Let  me  see.  Shall  you  be  passing  the  House  any  time 
to-morrow  ?" 


A    WILD    GUESS.  199 

"  I  will  keep  any  appointment  you  like  to  make,"  said  I. 

"  I  shall  be  down  to-morrow  about  two.  From  that  to  four  or 
five  I  shall  be  at  your  service." 

With  that  he  passed  on  to  the  other  pictures. 

"  I  congratulate  you,"  said  Heatherleigh.  "  I  suppose  you  fancy 
that  eccentric  gentleman,  who  looks  like  a  broken-down  banker,  is 
the  victim  of  a  good-natured  wliim.  If  you  do,  you  make  a  mis- 
take. With  these  few  seconds  looking  over  your  picture,  he  could 
tell  you  more  about  it  now  than  you  know  yourself.  He  has 
spent  his  life  in  studying  and  buying  pictures,  all  over  Europe, 
and,  though  he  enjoys  extending  a  little  patronage  now  and  again, 
like  other  men,  he  does  not  buy  bad  pictures  out  of  charity. 
Take  what  you  can  get  from  him  for  your  picture ;  for  you  may 
be  sure  he  won't  give  you  more  than  its  value.  Who  knows  but 
that  he  and  Lady  Louisa  may  take  you  up,  and  become  your  pa- 
trons, as  in  the  old  days?  They  were  good  enough  to  patronize 
me  a  little ;  but  they  found  that  I  had  little  ambition ;  that  I  was 
lazy  ;  that,  vihen  I  went  down  to  Clarges  Castle,  in  Hants,  I  used 
to  disappear  for  hours  when  I  was  most  wanted,  and  be  found 
smoking  a  pipe  in  a  conservatory." 

"  Had  they  put  up  a  tight  rope  for  you  across  the  lawn,  or  how 
were  you  expected  to  amuse  your  patrons  ?" 

"  Don't  you  make  a  mistake,"  said  Heatherleigh ;  "  the  good 
graces,  well-intentioned,  of  rich  people  are  not  to  be  despised. 
You  should  value  the  friendship  of  a  rich  man,  not  because  he  is 
rich,  but  because  his  being  rich  is  a  proof  of  the  disinterestedness 
of  his  friendship.  There !  that  sounds  like  a  proverb ;  but  it  is 
common-sense." 

Heatherleigh  was  rather  in  the  habit  of  uttering  maxims  of  this 
kind.  Once,  down  at  Brighton,  Mr.  Alfred  Burnham  got  into  a 
very  bad  temper  with  the  billiard-marker  at  his  hotel.  There 
was  no  doubt  about  it,  the  marker  had  been  trying  on  a  bit  of 
sharp  practice,  and  lied  about  it ;  whereupon  Alfred  Burnham  fell 
to  cursing  and  swearing  at  him.  The  marker  appealed  to  Heath- 
erleigh, who  listened  attentively,  and  tried  to  smooth  down  the 
matter,  when  Burnham  exclaimed — 

"  By  Jove,  Heatherleigh,  you  speak  to  a  billiard-marker  as  if  he 
were  a  gentleman !" 

Whereupon  Heatherleigh  replied,  with  a  sharp  look  in  hig 
eye— 


200  KILMENY. 

"  I  speak  courteously  to  a  billiard-inarlver,  not  because  he  is  a 
gentleman,  but  because  /  am." 

Mr.  Burnliam  pretended  not  to  hear  that  remark,  and  made  a 
very  pretty  losing -hazard,  without,  however,  having  previously 
touched  either  of  the  other  balls. 

When  all  the  pictures  had  been  gone  over  again  and  again, 
commented  on,  criticised,  and  their  future  chances  canvassed,  there 
was  a  general  disposition  towards  pipes  and  beer.  Those  who 
could  extemporize  a  seat  or  stool  of  any  kind,  did  so  ;  while  those 
who  were  too  tightly  wedged  in  to  move,  struggled  to  open  their 
coats,  and  get  at  their  tobacco.  Heatherleigh  and  one  or  two 
more  of  us  got  into  a  safe  corner,  and  mono[)olized  a  small  plat- 
form, whither  was  speedily  brought  one  of  the  large  jugs  of  ale 
that  were  now  being  introduced.  In  a  remarkably  short  space  of 
time  the  atmosphere  had  thickened,  so  that  the  blazing  gas-lights 
were  palpably  pale.  A  dense  blue  atmosphere  hung  over  the 
place,  and  the  thicker  it  grew  the  louder  grew  the  T>abel  of  voices 
— with  hurried  jests,  and  scraps  of  welcome,  and  bits  of  criticism 
flying  about,  attacking  the  ear  from  all  points,  and  leaving  the 
brain  somewhat  bewildered.  In  our  sechided  corner,  however,  a 
choice  company  liad  assembled ;  one  of  them,  a  burly  gentleman, 
in  a  velveteen  coat  and  immense  water-proof  leggings,  declaring 
that  gallons  of  beer  were  useless  in  slaking  his  thirst,  now  that  the 
Royal  Academicians  had  made  a  drunkard  of  him. 

"But  why  the  Academicians?"  said  Heatherleigh. 

"That  was  the  very  natural  question  Lady  Osborne  asked  me 
last  week,"  said  lie,  with  a  laugh  ;  "  and  1  told  her  simply  :  *  I  go 
to  the  Academy  exhiiutioiis  every  year  as  a  duty;  and  of  course 
I  lixds  out  for  tile  Academicians'  works  first.  Well,  of  late  I  have 
found  them  so  confoundedly  bad  that  I  had  to  go  out  after  look- 
ing at  each  picture  for  a  glass  of  brandy.  1  have  been  forced  to 
become  a  drunkard  in  order  to  keep  my  stomach  steady.' " 

"  I  liopc  you  didn't  tell  her  ladyship  the  story  in  these  words?" 
said  one. 

"  More's  the  I>ity,"  said  he,  with  a  shrug.  "Women  would  suf- 
fer a  good  deal  less — I  mean,  they  wouldn't  so  often  be  the  vic- 
tims of  an  idiotic  delicacy — if,  with  them,  language  didn't  slop  at 
their  necks  and  begin  again  at  their  ankles." 

But  if  the  Academy  had  taught  him  to  drink  brandy,  he  seemed 
to  take  very  kindly  to  beer,  as  they  all  did,  until  the  jilace  got  to 


A    WILD    GUESS.  201 

be,  as  one  of  them  said,  "  like  Noah's  ark  in  a  thunder-storm,  with 
all  the  animals  roaring  and  kicking." 

One  man  proposed  to  play  pitch  and  toss  as  a  quiet  and  intel- 
lectual amusement;  another  exclaimed  that  he  was  sick  of  it;  a 
third  retorted  that  one  got  sick  of  playing  at  pitch  and  toss  only 
in  crossing  the  Channel ;  a  fourth  blundered  about  the  initials  of 
two  artists  named  Brown,  and  IIeath<;i]eigh  consoled  him  by  ask- 
ing how  the  recording  angel  was  likely  to  distinguish  among  the 
Welsh  Joneses ;  another  was  deep  in  {)hilosophy,  maintained  that 
a  man  must  worship  something,  and  that  a  man  who  cut  himself 
off  from  all  dogmatic  religions  must  take  to  the  worship  of  wom- 
an ;  Heatherleigh  inquired  of  him  if  he  meant  that  irreligious 
men  went  in  for  the  woman  of  Babylon  ;  a  newspaper  man,  again, 
was  describing  a  tenantry  dinner  he  had  been  at  in  Kent,  and 
swearing  it  was  a  capital  one,  by  Gunter !  while  here  and  there 
were  serious  dissertations  on  the  future  of  the  new  school,  coupled 
with  the  question  when  England  "would  gain  the  least  bit  of  rec- 
ognition in  Continental  galleries. 

Heatherleigh  had  no  fewer  than  four  pictures  on  the  walls,  and 
he  had  other  two  in  his  studio,  all  of  which  he  purposed  sending 
into  the  Academy. 

"Why  not  make  it  eight,"  I  asked  of  him,  "  and  be  an  R.  A.  in 
number,  if  not  in  name?" 

"  I  am  afraid  eight  would  goad  the  hangmen  into  fury,  and  they 
might  turn  again  and  rend  me.  But  I  might  sell  one  or  two  of  the 
pictures  that  are  here  before  then,  and  these  I  shall  not  send  in." 

Had  they  been  cheeses  he  could  not  have  treated  the  question 
in  a  more  matter-of-fact  way.  Indeed,  there  was  no  concealing 
the  fact  that  Heatherleigh  regarded  the  Academy  as  a  good  sales- 
room, and  looked  forward  to  any  reputation  he  might  gain  by 
Ins  new  pictures  chiefly  so  far  as  that  affected  their  price.  He 
was  far  too  honest  a  man  to  seek  to  hide  these  views  of  his ;  and 
he  explained  them  with  a  simplicity  which  admitted  of  no  argu- 
ment. I  noticed,  also,  that  of  late  he  had  considerably  increased 
his  prices.  Formerly  he  had  been  accustomed  to  treat  the  dealers 
who  came  about  him  in  rather  a  cavalier  fashion,  bantering  them, 
and  so  on  ;  but  he  generally  ended  by  letting  the  picture  go  for 
whatever  they  offered,  and  often,  as  I  saw,  mucli  beneath  its  value. 

"  My  getting  seventy  pounds  instead  of  fifty  for  a  picture  won't 
better  the  quality  of  my  bottled  ale,  will  it  ?"  he  asked. 

12 


202  KILMENY.    - 

"  No,"  I  said  ;  "  but  it  might  secure  your  being  able  to  get 
bottled  ale  in  those  times  when  you  may  be  unable  to  work." 

"  You  mean  that  I  ought  to  lay  up  for  a  rainy  day  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"  I  daren't  begin,  Ted  ;  for  I  know  the  consequences.  A  man 
wlio  has  just  what  money  he  wants,  with  the  chance  of  getting  a 
little  more  by  a  little  extra  work,  is  in  a  happy  position  ;  but  the 
man  who  saves  ever  so  little  pledges  himself  to  a  draining  system. 
He  is  never  satisfied  with  what  he  has  saved.  Its  ignominious 
smallness  haunts  him,  and  drives  him  to  unnecessary  work,  and 
unnecessary  economies.  God  forbid  that  I  sliould  become  avari- 
cious, with  my  eyes  open,  Ted  !" 

"  You  talk  nonsense,"  I  said.  "  There  is  no  reason  why  you 
should  become  avaricious.  But  when  you  liave  an  extra  ten- 
pound  or  twenty-pound  note,  why  not  put  it  into  a  drawer  or 
into  a  bank,  rather  than  invent  some  useless  extravagance,  as  you 
do  now,  simply  to  get  rid  of  it?" 

"Then  the  ten-pound  note  would  look  shabby.  I  should  say 
to  myself,  '  I  must  get  a  liundred  pounds,  instead  of  eighty,  for 
tills  picture  from  Solomons.'  Solomons  comes  up.  We  have 
talked  about  eighty  pounds;  1  demand  a  hundred.  Solomons 
is  disgusted,  begins  to  worry  and  bargain  and  deprecate  and  be- 
seech. Inwardly  I  cry  to  myself,  '  Good  God !  am  I  become  a 
clieesemonger,  that  I  must  make  my  living  thus?'  Ultimately 
Sr)lomons  gives  mc  ninety  pounds;  and  I  never  sec  him  after- 
wards without  grudging  him  the  ten  pounds,  and  I  never  see  my 
small  savings  without  tliinking,  with  a  pang,  that  they  ought  to 
be  ten  j)ounds  more.  My  dear  boy,  I  don't  see  why  a  man  should 
wilfully  make  his  life  a  burden  to  him.  When  the  rainy  day  does 
come,  I  shall  know  at  least  that  1  have  enjoyed  the  sunshine.  I 
don't  envy  the  men  wlio  sit  indoors  all  their  life,  disconsolately 
patching  an  nnilmlla." 

Doubtless  lie  meant  all  this  when  he  said  it ;  for,  in  theory,  it 
was  an  exact  reflex  of  his  actual  life.  But  my  friend  was  much 
too  wise  a  man  to  hanker  afler  consistency,  the  stolid  virtue  of 
the  I'hilistcr.  Without  a  word  as  to  what  had  led  him  to  see  the 
error  of  his  ways,  he  changed  his  whole  manner  of  living.  I  have 
already  spoken  of  his  increased  activity,  which  at  length  developed 
into  downright  hard  work.  And  ni>w  he  demanded  the  high- 
est y)rice  for  liis  work  that  he  was  likely  to  get.     The  dealers  were 


A    WILD    GUESS.  203 

astonished  to  find  the  old,  easy,  profitable  method  of  making  a 
bargain  no  longer  possible.  They  did  not  go  off  in  a  rage,  as  one 
might  have  expected ;  for  Heatherleigh's  pictures  sold  readily. 
He  had  a  happy  quickness  in  the  selection  of  good  subjects ;  he 
had  a  great  power  of  dramatic  and  forcible  grouping  and  treat- 
ment ;  and  the  workmanship  of  his  pictures,  though  mannered, 
was  invariably  clever,  striking,  and  much  above  that  of  nine  tenths 
of  the  pictures  the  dealers  sold. 

At  this  little  exhibition  Mr.  Solomons  was  present  —  a  stout, 
good-looking  man,  much  resembling  in  appearance  and  manner  a 
Frankfort  merchant,  with  a  ruddy  face,  black  and  curly  hair,  a 
Jewish  set  of  features,  a  seal-skin  waistcoat,  and  a  thick  gold  chain. 
He  wore  a  ring  on  his  forefinger,  and  spoke  with  a  slightly  Ger- 
man accent. 

He  was  smoking  a  cigar  when  he  came  along  and  sat  down  by 
Heatherleigh. 

"  Have  you  sold  any  of  these  pictures  of  yours,  Mr.  Heather- 
leigh ?" 

"  Not  one,  worshipful  sir," 

"  I  don't  think  you  had  any  of  them  begun  when  I  called  at 
your  place  last.     You  must  have  lost  no  time  over  them." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  offer  me  thirty  pounds  less  than  their  worth 
because  you  have  discovered  marks  of  haste  ?" 

"  I  have  not  made  you  an  offer  at  all  yet — " 

"  And  mayn't,  you  would  say  ?  Don't.  Is  this  a  time  for  buy- 
ing and  selling,  Mr.  Solomons  ?  We  are  disposed  to  be  generous 
to-night.  It  is  unsafe  to  make  bargains  with  the  fumes  of  tobacco 
in  the  brain." 

"  Ah,  Mr.  Heatherleigh,  I  can  remember  when  you  treated  us 
poor  dealers  in  a  different  way — " 

"  And  what  return  did  you  ever  give  me — except  that  box  of 
cigars,  and  I  admit  they  were  of  the  best.  But  you  know,  Mr. 
Solomons,  cigars  are  of  no  use  to  us  poor  devils ;  they  disappear 
too  quickly.     Cigars  were  made  for  kings  and  picture-dealei's." 

"  I  don't  know  how  kings  are  faring,"  said  Mr.  Solomons,  "  but 
I  know  it  is  a  hard  time  for  picture-dealers.  People  worCt  buy 
pictures.  The  state  of  business  in  the  city  is  frightful,  and  it 
tells  upon  us  directly.     We  carCt  sell  a  picture." 

"  What  a  merciful  arrangement  of  Providence  it  is  that  a  man 
who  can't  sell  a  picture  is  at  least  at  liberty  to  buy  one !     But 


204  KILMENY. 

haven't  you  always  been  saying  the  same  thing;,  any  time  thest- 
thirty  years,  Mr.  Soh)inons  ?  It  is  only  a  hahit  you  have  got  into. 
You  know,  you  will  see  a  professional  lieggar,  in  the  hottest  day 
in  summer,  shivering  with  cold,  and  drawing  his  rags  about  him, 
simply  out  of  habit." 

"It  is  an  ominous  comparison,  Mr.  Heatherleigh.  But  there's 
no  saying  w'hat  may  befall  one,  if  one  has  to  come  between  the 
artists  and  the  public,  submitting  to  the  wit  of  the  one  and  the 
indifference  of  the  other — " 

"  While  pocketing  the  money  of  both.  But  I  am  ashamed  of 
you,  Mr.  Solomons,  to  hear  you  talk  in  that  way,  considering  the 
harvest  that  surrounds  you  on  every  side.  You  look  like  a  farmer 
standing  in  the  middle  of  his  sheaves,  and  cursing  at  Providence. 
However,  I  forgive  you — " 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Mr.  Solomons,  with  a  sneer,  indicative  of  a 
possible  change  in  his  temper. 

"  And,  although  this  is  not  a  time  for  buying  and  selling,  as 
I  said,  what  would  you  be  disposed  to  give  for  that  '  Kilmeiiy,' 
whi(;h  is  the  work  of  my  friend  here?     Mr.  Ives — Mr.  Solomon>." 

"How  do  you  do,  sir?  I  rather  like  that  picture;  there  is  a 
freshness  about  it  which  might  attract  a  purchaser.  Yet  the  sub- 
ject is  not  a  popular  one,  you  know.  Well,  let  me  see,  I  shouldn't 
mind  venturing  fifty  pounds  upon  it." 

Heatherleigh  burst  into  a  fit  of  laughter. 

"  Why  I  will  give  him  £100  for  it  myself,  on  tlic  chance  of 
making  fifty  per  cent,  by  the  bargain." 

"  Oh,"  said  Mr.  Solomons,  coldly,  "you  think  you  will  get  £150 
for  that  picture?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Then  I  wish  you  may  get  it,"  said  Mr.  Solomons,  rising  and 
walking  off,  apparently  in  high  dudgeon. 

"  If  impudence  could  withstand  powder  and  shot,"  said  Heather- 
leigh, "the  se(!d  of  Abraham  would  by  this  time  have  changed  the 
world  into  a  big  Judea.  But  don't  imagine  that  he  is  much  of- 
fended. Solomons  never  (piarrels  with  his  bread  and  butter; 
and  that  is  the  position  in  which  we  stand  to  him  at  present." 

"There  is  something  unnatural,  it  appears  to  me,"  I  said,  "in 
having  the  relations  of  dealer  and  artist  reverscid  in  that  way. 
The  dealer  ought  to  be  the  patron  ;  you,  the  artist,  ought  to  be 
Inimble  and  trrateful — " 


MV    PATRON.  205 

"  So  I  was  at  one  time,"  said  Ileatlierleigli.  "  Nor  do  I  think 
that  I  took  any  advantage  when  1  ^(jt  the  upper  hand.  I  have 
let  them  off  very  easily — that  is,  hitherto.  Now  I  mean  to  wake 
them  up — " 

"  Why  ?" 

"  Because  I  have  grown  avaricious." 

"  Why  have  you  grown  avaricious  ?" 

"  Because  I  am  getting  old,"  he  said,  with  a  laugh. 

On  our  way  home  (I  had  already  remained  out  much  longer 
than  an  invalid  ought  to  have  done),  we  talked  more  of  this  and 
of  other  matters,  as  we  went  up  by  Regent's  Park,  in  the  cold, 
clear  night. 

"  I  suppose,"  said  Heatherleigh,  "  that  if  you  had  been  left  to 
yourself,  without  the  advantage  of  my  sage  counsel  and  experi- 
ence, you  would  have  given  the  picture  to  Solomons  for  fifty 
pounds  ?" 

"  No,  nor  for  £500  either,"  I  said. 

"  But  why  ?" 

"  Fancy  a  Frankfort  Jew  becoming  the  owner  of — " 

"  Of  a  portrait  of  Hester  Burnham." 

"  Exactly." 

We  walked  on  for  some  time  in  silence;  and  I  suppose  Heath- 
erleigh had  been  running  over  all  sorts  of  absurd  deductions  in 
his  mind,  for  he  said,  just  as  we  were  nearing  home — 

"  I  once  was  very  nearly  thinking  that  Bonnie  Lesk-y  had  fallen 
in  love  with  you,  but  now  I  begin  to  think  that  you  have  fallen  in 
love  with  Hester  Burnham.  The  situation  would  be  very  roman- 
tic— but,  for  you,  very  uncomfortable,  just  at  this  particular  time 
of  day." 


CHAPTER  XXHI. 

MY    PATRON. 

Next  morning  Polly  Whistler  came  up  to  see  us,  and  she  had 
no  sooner  entered  the  room,  breathless  and  excited,  with  a  tine 
color  in  her  pretty  cheeks  and  gladness  in  her  bright  eyes,  than 
she  cried  out — 

"  Dh,  Ted,  do  you  know  that  I  have  met  three  different  people 


206  KILMENY. 

this  morning  whose  first  talk  was  about  your  picture !  Tliey  arc 
all  astonished — you  are  going  to  turn  the  Aeaeleniy  uj)side  down 
— and  I  declare,  when  T  met  the  last  of  the  three,  and  heard  what 
he  had  to  say,  I  was  near  crying  for  fair  happiness.  You  know 
I've  a  great  deal  to  do  with  it,  Ted — I — I  beg  your  pardon — " 

"If  you  call  me  Mr.  Ives  again,  Polly,  as  you  did  when  I  came 
back  from  Bucks,  I  shall  order  you  out  for  instant  execution." 

"  Because  I  bes^ored  of  you  not  to  alter  it ;  and  I  knew  what 
they  would  say  of  it — " 

"  And  you  helped  me  with  it  all  through,  Polly,  It  is  too  true. 
I  must  give  up  to  you  three  fourths  of  all  the  honor  and  glory — " 

"  Though  I  could  not  understand,  even  at  the  time,  how  you 
managed  to  finish  it,  painting  from  me,  without  putting  a  trace 
of  me  into  it.  Mr.  Heatherleigh  says  you  will  only  be  able  to 
j)aint  one  face  all  your  life — " 

"  Isn't  it  worth  giving  up  a  lifetime  to  paint,  Polly?" 

"  Perhaps  it  is,  but  that  wouldn't  pay.  But  really,  Ted,  I'm 
very,  very,  very  glad,  and  I  hope  I'm  the  very  first  to  wish  you 
joy,  for  our  old  acquaintance'  sake,  you  know." 

And  the  kind-hearted  girl  grew  almost  serious  with  the  earnest- 
ness of  her  congratulations. 

You  would  scarcely  have  known  Polly  now,  so  much  had  she 
changed  during  the  past  eighteen  months.  The  old  frank  manner 
was  still  there,  with  the  bright  smile,  the  ready  tongue,  and  fear- 
less speech ;  but  Polly  had  grown  suddenly  genteel  in  her  dress. 
In  the  old  days,  it  must  be  admitted,  she  had  a  trick  of  running 
to  and  from  her  home,  wearing,  to  save  trouble,  the  shawl  in  which 
she  had  'sat'  to  this  or  the  other  artist — that  is  to  say,  when  the 
shawl  belonged  to  her  own  considerable  stock  of  properties.  I 
have  met  her  in  Granby  Street,  running  home  in  the  dusk,  with 
the  most  wonderful  articles  of  attire  on  her  back;  and  not  uufre- 
<|uently  with  her  shawl  wrapped  around  lur  head  in  place  of  a 
bonnet.  Now  all  that  was  over.  Under  my  mother's  tutelage 
and  millinery  aid,  Polly  dressed  like  a  young  lad) — very  j)lainly, 
it  is  true,  but  very  neatly.  Her  own  mother  had  at  length  l)een 
prevailed  upon  to  go  to  Greenwich,  on  a  pension  granted  her  by 
her  daughter;  and  Polly's  spirits,  never  nf  the  lowest,  were  now 
remarkably  high  in  consequence.  Nor  did  her  elTorts  at  self-im- 
jirovement  stop  with  her  change  of  attire.  My  mother  had  taken 
a  great  fancy  tt»  the  irirl,  and  was  instruct ing  her  in  all  manner  of 


MY    PATRON.  207 

delicate  housewifely  arts.  There  never  was  a  more  willing  piii>il, 
there  has  seldom  been  a  cleverer  one.  Quick  in  the  "  uptake," 
as  the  Scotch  say,  she  was  nimble  with  her  fingers,  and  untiring 
in  her  perseverance.  My  mother  was  delighted  with  the  duties  of 
instructress,  as  most  women  are ;  and,  not  content  with  teaching 
Polly  the  secrets  of  womanly  lore,  she  took  to  giving  her  lessons 
in  French.  My  mother's  pronunciation  was  not  very  good — how 
many  years  was  it  since  she,  a  clergyman's  daughter,  had  acquired 
the  language  ? — but  it  was  good  enough  for  Polly,  who  soon  be- 
gan to  be  able  to  read  French  with  tolerable  ease.  In  other  di- 
rections her  efforts  at  self-improvement  were  equally  strenuous 
and  successful ;  and  it  must  be  remembered  that  her  acquirements 
were  immediately  tested  by  the  ready  conversation  she  held  with 
all  the  people  who  surrounded  her.  The  information  possessed 
Ijy  artists  is,  as  a  rule,  remarkably  many-sided ;  and  as  Polly  did 
not  hesitate  for  a  moment  in  revealing  the  bent  of  her  studies — 
especially  in  literature — she  had  the  benefit  of  a  good  deal  of  ex- 
tempore and  suggestive  criticism  from  the  ready-witted  and  in- 
telligent men  with  whom  she  passed  most  of  her  forenoons. 

Some  people  would  say  that  a  girl  of  quick  and  sensitive  nat- 
ure, aiming  at  self-culture,  should,  as  a  preliminary  step,  have  re- 
linquished this  calling  by  which  she  got  her  living.  That  was  a 
point  which  never  occurred  to  either  her  or  my  mother.  These 
two  simple-minded  women  were  too  pure  and  innocent  to  see 
anything  wrong  in  a  girl  suffering  her  portrait  to  be  daily  paint- 
ed, especially  as  her  patrons  were  a  small  number  of  men  who 
were  well  known  to  her  and  to  each  other.  Indeed,  Polly,  with 
her  bright  ways  and  her  clever  speech,  was  the  common  friend  of 
that  small  community,  and  there  was  not  one  of  them  who  would 
not  have  directly  and  courageously  broken  the  law  of  his  country 
in  order  to  administer  a  conclusive  thrashing  to  any  stranger  who 
should  dare  to  insult  her.  To  every  one  it  seemed  a  matter  of 
course  that  she  should  remain  in  her  old  calling,  except  to  Heath- 
erleigh. 

"  It  is  a  shame  that  a  girl  like  that  should  be  a  model,"  he  said 
to  me,  one  evening,  after  a  fit  of  gloomy  meditation. 

"  Why,  what  harm  does  it  do  her  ?" 

"  No  harm,  truly.  The  girl  could  walk  through  anything,  and 
consort  with  any  kind  of  people,  and  yet  preserve  that  fine  fresh- 
ness of  character  which  springs  from  her  fearless  honesty." 


208  KILMENV. 

"  If  that  is  so,  why  should  she  throw  aside  an  occupation 
wliich  is  not  arduous,  which  is  well  paid,  and  which  she  seems  to 
enjoy  ?" 

"  Well,  it  seems  a  shame  that  she  should  be  called  a  model, 
when  you  know  what  sort  of  women  bear  the  same  name." 

"  But  that  principle  w  ould  make  every  calling  in  life  dishonor- 
able. Should  a  man  be  ashamed  to  be  called  a  lawyer  because 
there  are  some  lawyers  who  are  scoundrels  ?  Should  a  woman  be 
ashamed  to  be  called  a  woman  because  there  are  many  women 
who  are  drunken,  perverted,  and  vicious?" 

Ileatherk'igh  did  not  answer,  but  he  kicked  away  his  landlady's 
cat  from  the  fender  (ordinarily,  it  was  granted  every  liberty  in 
the  room,  including  the  inspection  of  his  breakfast-table),  and 
sucked  his  wooden  pipe  fiercely. 

However,  Polly  knew  nothing  of  this  discussion,  and  remained 
as  she  had  been,  perfectly  satisfied  with  herself,  and  her  friends, 
and  her  manner  of  living,  I  never  saw  a  more  contented  or  hap- 
py creature. 

Towards  the  appointed  hour  I  made  my  way  down  to  West- 
minster, and  to  the  House  of  Commons.  When  I  arrived,  the 
bell  had  just  rung  for  a  division,  and  the  nondescript  loungers 
who  were  hanging  about  were  ignominiously  swept  into  the  cor- 
ridor, to  study  the  ill-lighted  frescos.  When  the  stir  was  over, 
and  communication  again  established,  I  sent  in  my  card  to  Mr. 
Webb,  and  in  a  few  minutes  lie  came  out,  hastily  apologizing,  in 
a  nervous  sort  of  way,  for  liis  having  been  detained.  I  accom- 
panied him  along  another  corridor  and  down  some  steps,  until  we 
arrived  at  a  dingy  and  melanclioly  apartment,  with  small  windows 
fronting,  but  not  allowing  you  to  look  out  on,  the  river,  which  ho 
said  was  the  smoking-room.  In  tlio  partial  dusk  of  this  gloomy 
chamber  one  or  two  men,  far  apart  and  silent,  sat  and  smoked  dis- 
consolately over  a  newspaper,  there  being  nothing  to  disturb  the 
silence  beyond  the  muffled  throbbing  of  the  steamboat-paddles 
outside. 

"  1  need  not  ask  you  if  you  smoke — let  me  give  yo\i  a  cigar," 
said  Mr.  Webb,  as  we  sat  down.  "You  must  have  consumed 
many  a  pipe  over  your  '  Kilmeny.' " 

"There  is  not  much  work  in  the  picture,"  I  said;  "but  it  was 
painted  imder  great  <lisadvant.igcs.  I  am  mrnly  an  apprentice 
as  yet,  and,  simjdv  through  my  want  of  teehnieal  education,  have 


MY    PATRON.  209 

to  spend  hours  over  what  an  experienced  man  would  do  in  a  few 
minutes." 

"  I  understand,"  he  said,  "  and  I  had  some  thought  of  speak- 
ing to  you  upon  the  point.  I  should  say  it  was  most  important 
for  you  to  get  some  such  practical  education,  under  a  competent 
master,  just  at  this  period  of  your  career,  before  you  settle  down 
into  a  mannerism  which  may  keep  you  crude  and  unfinished  all 
your  life.  I  have  been  much  interested  in  your  picture;  and  I 
should  not  offer  you  the  advice  if  I  did  not  think  you  were  im- 
provable." 

This  he  said  with  a  slight  smile ;  but  most  of  his  hesitating 
speech  had  been  pointed  at  the  corner  of  the  table  before  us,  and 
had  been  given  out  in  sharp,  quick,  detached  phrases. 

"  Where  have  you  studied  ?" 

**  Nowhere,  except  under  Ilea^ierleigh.  Then  I  have  been  a 
pretty  constant  attender  at  our  life-class — " 

"  Ah,  I  know.  May  I  ask  if  you  have  any  sort  of  plans  for  the 
future  ?" 

"  None,  except  a  wish  to  get  wholly  out  of  England  for  a  time, 
that  I  may  get  away  from  certain  influences  I  dislike,  and — and — 
and,  generally  speaking,  find  my  level." 

"  That  is  good,  very  good,"  he  said,  abruptly,  "  but  vague.  Don't 
think  me  impertinent  if  I  ask  further — do  you  depend  on  paint- 
ing for  a  living  ?" 

"Not  wholly,  I  have  a  small  income;  but  if  I  left  England,  I 
should  have  to  leave  pretty  nearly  the  whole  of  it  for  my  mother." 

"  You  will  find  living  abroad  very  cheap.  What  do  you  say 
to  Munich  ?  It  is  the  cheapest  town  in  Germany.  It  is  the 
richest  in  point  of  art-treasures.  Every  facility  is  given  you  for 
study  ;  and  I  have  an  excellent  friend,  Professor  Kunzen,  whose 
name  you  may  liave  heard  of  in  connection  with  the  discussion 
about  the  Nibelungen  frescos.  Kunzen  has  some  students ;  and 
an  introduction  from  me  would  give  you  at  once  an  instructor 
and  a  friend." 

To  leave  England  had  long  been  a  dream  of  mine,  but  now  that 
it  was  put  bluntly  and  practically  before  me,  I  involuntarily  hesi- 
tated. To  leave  England,  and  live  so  long  in  a  foreign  land  that 
the  old  places  should  grow  strange  to  me — that,  coming  back,  I 
should  'ook  a*  the  great  chestnuts  of  the  avenue  at  Burnham,  and 
scarcely  know  them  again  ! 


210  KILMENY. 

"  You  can  turn  the  project  over  in  your  mind,"  he  said ;  "  it  i? 
worth  your  attention,  and  I  shall  be  glad  to  give  you  any  little 
assistance  I  can.  You  may  depend  on  Kunzen.  But  to  our  pres- 
ent business.     You  said  you  had  not  sold  '  Kilmeny  f  " 

"  I  have  not  sold  it  yet." 

"  You  do  not  mean  to  keep  by  your  resolution  not  to  sell  it  ?" 

"  Well,"  said  I,  "  I  will  tell  you  frankly  how  the  matter  stands. 
You  judge  by  my  being  here  that  I  am  willing  to  sell  the  picture ; 
but  I  have  come  mainly  because  you  were  good  enough  to  ask  me. 
1  would  rather  not  sell  the  picture.  Don't  imagine  I  say  so  to 
tempt  you  to  offer  me  a  big  price.  I  would  rather  not  sell  it,  for 
the  reason  that  1  told  you.  On  the  other  hand,  I  want  the  money, 
as  1  have  been  earning  nothing  for  some  months,  through  an  ac- 
cident I  suffered." 

"  Good  heavens !"  he  exclaimed,  suddenly  glancing  at  my  arm, 
which  was  in  a  sling,  "  was  it  you  who  got  shot  instead  of  Hes- 
ter—" 

"Not  instead  of  Miss  Burnham,"  T  said,  "  for  the  ball  might 
not  have  hit  her  at  all ;  but  there  is  no  mistake  about  my  having 
been  shot." 

"  This  is  extraordinary — very  extraordinary,"  he  said. 

I  saw  him  finger  the  card,  which  he  still  held  in  his  hand.  ITe 
had  evidently  forgotten  my  name,  and  was  anxious  to  refresh  his 
memory,  but  politeness  prevented  his  doing  so,  and  so  T  was  prob- 
ably Mr.  Gyves  or  Mr.  Jervis  to  him  for  the  time  being. 

"  Very  extraordinary.  My  dear  sir,  we  owe  very  much  to  you. 
1  beg  you  will  forgive  my  not  having  noticed  the  similarity  of  the 
name,  which  is  perfectly  familiar  to  me — " 

What  a  good-natured  fib  that  was ! 

"  — And  I  hope  our  ac(|uaintanceship  will  not  cease  with  this 
matter  of  business.  How  stupid  of  Hcathcrleigh  not  to  tell  me! 
However,  1  must  consider  the  picture  mine;  and  you  shall  put 
your  own  price  upon  it — " 

*'  Pardon  me,"  I  said,  "  we  are  still  discussing  business.  Hcath- 
erleigh  told  me  you  knew  the  value  of  a  picture  better  than  any 
man  of  his  actjiiaintance.      I  know  nothing  of  it,  and  so — " 

"And  so  I  must  makt'  thr  offer?  Good,  1  will  give  you  £150 
for  the  picture." 

1  looked  at  him  with  amazenienl.  There  was  on  his  f:iee  none 
of  that  bland  look  of  patronaLTe  with   which  a  man  generally  ex* 


MV    PATRON.  211 

hibits  his  generosity.  Indeed,  the  cold  gray  face  was  quite  busi- 
nesslike and  calm. 

"  I  am  much  obliged  to  you,  Mr.  Webb,"  I  said,  very  much  in- 
clined to  laugh,  "  but  I  would  rather  not  be  paid  by  you  for  hav- 
ing pushed  your  cousin  out  of  danger." 

"  Good  heavens !"  he  said,  "  how  can  you  imagine  such  a  thing  ! 
On  my  soul  and  honor,  1  would  have  bidden  that  sum  for  it  at  a 
public  sale,  partly,  of  course,  because  it  is  so  quaint  a  transfigura- 
tion of  Hester's  face.  If  you  think  the  price  too  high,  name 
your  own,  but  I  tell  you  that  you  wrong  yourself  in  taking  less." 

"  Suppose  it  is  exhibited  at  the  Royal  Academy,  will  you  give 
me  whatever  is  offered  for  it  by  anybody  ?" 

"  I  will  give  you  £20  more  than  the  highest  offer.  Is  it  a  bar- 
gain ?" 

"Yes." 

"And  I  hope  that  our  acquaintanceship  will  not  terminate  with 
this  matter  of  business.  Lady  Louisa  will  be  delighted,  I  am  sure, 
to  make  your  acquaintance." 

So  we  parted,  and  I  got  out  again  into  the  roar  of  Westminster. 
In  all  that  hurrying  crowd  of  people,  there  was  no  one  who  suf- 
fered such  pangs  of  remorse  and  shame  as  I  did  at  that  moment. 
I  suppose  when  we  are  too  well  off  we  exaggerate  minor  causes  of 
worry  until  we  reach  the  common  level  of  discontent ;  or  it  may 
be  that  some  people  are  morbidly  sensitive  on  particular  points ; 
but,  at  all  events,  I  had  no  sooner  got  out  of  that  dull  smoking- 
room  than  I  felt  wretched  and  guilty.  I  had  sold  my  honor  for 
a  mess  of  pottage.  I  had  gone  down  to  meet  Mr.  Webb  in  an  ir- 
resolute frame  of  mind,  tempted  both  ways,  and  yet  hoping  I 
should  cling  to  the  right  side.  I  had  succumbed  to  the  tempta- 
tion, and,  througli  the  dusk  of  the  afternoon,  my  eyes  seemed  to 
wander  up  to  that  exhibition-room  where  "  Kilmeny  "  stood,  and 
looked  out  upon  me  with  reproach  in  her  mystic  face. 

I  envied  the  jolly  policemen  who  were  cracking  jokes  with  each 
other  at  the  corner  of  Parliament  Street,  and  the  burly  omnibus 
drivers  with  their  ready  fun,  and  the  honest  men  and  women  who 
were  going  home,  after  a  good  day's  labor,  to  their  comfortable 
chimney-corners.  Finally,  I  walked  straight  up  to  the  exhibition- 
rooms. 

Most  of  the  pictures  had  been  left  there,  so  that  the  owners 
might  send  them   directly   on  to   the   Royal   Academy.     I  had 


212  KILMENY. 

"  Kilmeny  "  taken  down  and  put  into  a  cab ;  then  I  drove  home 
and  carried  the  picture  up-stairs  to  my  own  room. 

What  should  I  do?  On  the  one  hand  £150,  or  some  approx- 
imate sum,  would  be  an  opportune  nest-egg  to  leave  with  my 
mother,  if  I  were  to  go  to  Germany.  Then,  if  this  little  girl  with 
the  wondering  face  were  to  get  into  the  Academy  Exhibition, 
would  not  people  talk  of  lier,  and  might  not  the  critics  be  kind 
to  a  beginner,  and  deal  charitably  with  a  first  effort  ?  That  was 
a  sore  temptation.  I  sat  and  imagined  all  the  possible  scenes 
that  might  arise  with  this  "  Kilmeny  "  of  mine,  whom  I  liad 
grown  to  love,  hanging  on  the  Academy  walls.  Would  not  Bon- 
nie Lesley  come,  and  let  her  beautiful  large  eyes  light  on  it,  and 
would  she  not  say  something  generous  about  it  ?  My  mother, 
too,  would  see  it  and  be  glad.  Perhaps — but  1  dare  not  think  of 
Hester  Burnliam  walking  up  to  this  picture,  and  reading  all  the 
tell-tale  meaning  of  it. 

It  was  a  pretty  dream — far  more  fascinating  tlian  any  one  can 
imagine  who  has  not  labored  carefully  and  lovingly  over  a  work 
of  art,  and  then  sees  it  ready  to  be  sent  abroad  for  recognition, 
with  all  the  halo  of  possible  success  about  it.  And  what  if  it 
should  be  successful — if  people  should  praise  it? 

I  turned  and  looked  at  the  calm,  .strange  face ;  and  now  tlie 
likeness  seemed  startling.  It  was  Hester  Burnham  who  stood 
there,  with  the  calm,  kindly  eyes;  and  she  seemed  to  say,  "  I 
have  been  with  you  many  a  still  and  silent  day,  in  this  very 
room,  and  we  had  got  to  know  each  other.  We  were  friends. 
And  now  you  would  make  money  by  the  results  of  this  inti- 
macy ;  and  you  would  have  people  talk  of  me,  and  idle  crowds 
stare  at  me." 

"Never  with  my  will,"  said  I,  aloud. 

I  caught  up  a  penknife  that  was  lying  on  the  table — 1  was  in 
too  great  a  hurry  to  answer  this  mute  reproach  to  think  of  taking 
the  picture  from  the  back  of  the  frame — and  run  the  keen  edge 
through  the  canvas,  uj)  both  sides,  and  across  both  ends,  leaving 
only  a  narrow  strip  adhering  to  the  frame.  Then  I  rolled  up  thf 
picture  and  put  it  in  a  drawer,  and  sat  down  in  the  dusk,  cold, 
trembling,  and  contented. 

The  dusk  decjx'Jied  and  grew  dark.  But  before  my  eyes  there 
cann!  a  series  of  lambent  visions — nil  the  l>itter  suggestions  of 
what  nii'dit  have  been.    'Bitter  euoiii-h   it  was  to   look   at  these 


MY    PATRON.  213 

things;  and  yet  I  felt  a  certain  austere  sense  of  satisfaction  witli 
myself  which  was  indeed  a  sort  of  grim  happiness. 

I  was  withdrawn  from  these  reveries  by  the  sound  of  voices. 
Polly  and  Heatherleigh  had  both  chanced  to  visit  us  that  evening, 
within  a  few  minutes  of  each  other.  So  I  went  down  to  meet 
them,  bold  and  comfortable. 

"  What  is  the  matter  with  you,  Ted  ?"  said  my  mother ;  "  you 
are  ghastly  white." 

"  It  is  joy,  mother  ;  I  have  been  offered  £150  for  the  picture." 

"  A  hundred  and  fifty  !"  said  Polly,  with  her  eyes  widely  open. 
"  Mayn't  I  see  it  now  ? — you  know  it  was  not  quite  finished  when 
I  last  saw  it." 

"It  is  down  in  the  Sumner  Exhibition -rooms,"  said  Heather- 
leigh. 

"  No,"  said  my  mother,  "  it  is  up-stairs.  I  saw  Ted  bring  it  in 
this  afternoon." 

"  Then  I  must  see  it,"  cried  Polly.  "  Shall  I  go  up,  or  will  you 
bring  it  down  ?" 

Determined  that  Heatherleigh  should  meanwhile  know  nothing 
of  what  had  happened,  I  told  Polly  to  come  up-stairs  with  me.  I 
lit  a  lamp,  and  went  with  her.  When  we  entered  the  room  I  went 
forward  to  the  table,  and  lifted  the  frame,  with  its  margin  of  can- 
vas. 

"There,  Polly,  what  do  you  think  of  'Kilmeny'  now?" 

She  looked  at  it  for  a  moment  in  blank  wonder,  and  then  a  sud- 
den expression  of  alarm  came  into  her  eyes. 

"  Oh,  Ted,  what  have  you  done  ?"  she  cried. 

I  sat  down  in  the  dimly  lighted  room,  before  the  empty  frame, 
and  told  her  the  whole  history  of  the  case.  I  explained,  as  well 
as  I  could,  the  necessity  which  had  driven  me  to  abandon  all  the 
hopes  I  had  formed  about  "  Kilmeny."  When  I  had  finished  I 
looked  up,  a  little  surprised  that  Polly  had  nothing  to  say,  either 
by  way  of  agreement  or  condemnation.  I  found  that  the  girl  had 
buried  her  face  in  her  hands,  and  I  fancied  she  was  crying. 


214  KlLMENTi 


CHArTER  XXIV. 

THE     ROYAL     ACADEMY. 


Once  the  thing  definitely  done  and  disposed  of,  I  was  much 
more  contented.  I  bore  with  equanimity  the  silent  reproach  of 
my  mother,  and  the  fiercer  indiiination  of  Heatherleigh. 

"  You  deserve  to  be  hanged,"  he  said.  "  I  never  saw  such  ac 
cursed  pride  in  any  one.     You  were  not  born  a  duke." 

"  Don't  you  know,"  said  I,  "  that  Miss  Burnham  and  I  made 
up  our  old  misunderstanding,  and  became  almost  friends  down 
there?  And  what  if  1  had  gone  and  publicly  exhibited  her,  and 
sold  her  portrait,  and  tried  to  gain  a  reputation  through  the  sweet- 
ness of  her  face  V 

"Confound  it!"  was  all  he  said.  Then  he  added,  "I  fancied 
we  were  going  into  the  Academy  together — that  we  should  cel- 
ebrate the  varnishing  day  together — that  we  should  run  the 
gauntlet  of  the  critics  together.  1  expected  great  things  from 
the  picture.  I  had  told  people  about  it.  I  expected  more  from 
it  than  ever  1  told  you,  because  I  wanted  the  reception  it  was 
sure  to  get  to  be  a  surprise  to  you.  But  you  have  always  been 
like  that — morbidly  sensitive,  wayward,  extravagant.  Did  you 
never  think  of  Bonnie  Lesley  coming  to  see  it?" 

"Of  course  I  did.  I  have  enjoyed  in  imagination  all  sorts  of 
visits  and  all  sorts  of  praises,  which  T  should  never  have  enjoyed 
in  reality.  But  that  is  not  the  (piestion,  lIcatherKigh.  You  talk 
as  if  I  had  had  any  option  in  the  matter.  I  tell  you  that,  rather 
than  have  sold  Miss  I>urnliam's  portrait  to  that  Jew,  as  you  sug- 
gested, I  would  let  him  pull  my  teeth  out  one  by  one." 

"That  would  have  been  reversing  the  order  of  nature.     It  was 
tlie  (Christians  who  pulled  the  Jews'  teeth  out,  in  accordance  with 
the  spirit  of  llic  New  Testament.      \N  liy,  do  you  know  who  pro- 
posed to  be  a  purehaser?" 
"  Who  ?" 

"  Pxtnnie  fjcsley  herself.  She  told  jne  privately  that  she  meant 
to  otTer  you,  without  your  knowing  her  name,  a  liandsonie  sum, 


THE    ROYAL    ACADEMY.  215 

in  order  to  give  you  confidence  in  yourself.  She  says  you  will 
never  be  an  artist  until  you  gain  some  artificial  belief  in  yourself." 

"  What  did  you  answer  ?" 

"  Only  what  I  have  said  to  yourself — that  there  is  nothing  to 
equal  your  modesty  except  your  pride." 

I  pointed  out  to  them  all,  however,  that  there  was  no  use  cry- 
ing over  spilled  milk ;  and  I  looked  forward  with  anxiety  to  the 
opening  of  the  Academy  Exhibition  merely  for  the  sake  of  Heath- 
erleigh.  Before  the  varnishing  day  arrived  he  had  already  ascer- 
tained that  four  of  his  pictures  were  hung — a  very  tolerable  num- 
ber for  a  man  who  had  never  cultivated  the  acquaintance  of  the 
Academicians.  On  the  morning  of  the  varnishing  day  he  called 
upon  me. 

"  I  want  you  to  come  down  with  me." 

"  They  won't  let  me  in  :  I  am  not  an  exhibitor." 

"  Worse  luck,"  said  he ;  "  but  I  think  1  can  arrange  about  it." 

So  I  agreed  to  accompany  him.  There  would  be  no  mortifica- 
tion in  being  turned  away,  as  there  would  have  been  had  I  been 
a  rejected  contributor. 

On  our  way  down,  he  said  — 

"  Did  you  cut  your  picture  all  to  pieces  ?" 

"  No,  certainly  not." 

"What  do  you  mean  to  do  with  it?" 

"  Keep  it  for  myself  as  a  portrait.  I  am  going  to  Germany 
soon :  I  shall  take  it  with  me." 

"W^hy  should  you  take  a  portrait  of  Hester  Burnham  with 
you?" 

"  I  hope  to  take  portraits  of  all  my  friends  with  me." 

"  Then  I  suppose  you  have  asked  Bonnie  Lesley  for  her  por- 
trait?" 

"  Well,  no ;  but  I  mean  to  do  so." 

"  Why  don't  you  thank  me  for  reminding  you  ?" 

He  smiled  as  he  said  this,  and  yet  I  did  not  care  to  inquire 
what  he  meant,  for  my  thoughts  were  running  on  this  great  col- 
lection of  pictures  we  were  going  to  see,  where  my  poor  "  Kil- 
meny,"  I  fondly  thought,  might  perhaps  have  had  a  place. 

The  Academy  Exhibition  was  then  in  the  National  Gallery.  I 
ascended  the  broad  stone  steps  without  much  hope  of  being  able 
to  gain  admission.  Heatherleigh  went  up  to  the  man  who  was 
passing  people  in,  and  I  fancied  there  was  a  quiet  look  of  intelli- 


•216  KILMENY. 

gerice  on  liis  face.  He  nodded  to  Heatberleigli.  There  was  scarce- 
ly a  word  said,  and  in  a  second  or  two  I  found  myself  inside  the 
entrance-hall. 

"  Have  you  brought  no  colors  with  you  ?"  said  Heatherleigb. 

"No;  why?" 

"  I  should  have  let  you  touch  up  one  or  two  of  my  pictures,  to 
pass  the  time." 

"  I  thought  you  never  went  through  the  farce  of  touching  up 
or  varnishing  in  the  rooms  ?" 

"  Neither  do  I ;  but  it  might  amuse  you." 

So  we  went  up-stairs.  In  the  first  room  there  were  two  of 
Heatherleigh's  pictures ;  one  had  an  excellent  place ;  the  other 
was  "  floored,"  and  in  a  corner. 

"That  leaves  me  in  an  equable  frame  of  mind,"  he  said,  "so 
far  as  this  room  is  concerned.  Ha!  what  is  this  1  see!  They 
have  given  me  a  good  place  !" 

He  was  passing  through  the  door  as  he  uttered  these  words. 
I  could  only  look  vaguely  into  the  next  room.  There  were  sev- 
eral artists  lounging  about,  one  or  two  of  them  pretending  to 
touch  up  their  pictures;  and  one  gentleman,  mounted  on  very 
high  steps,  was  carefully  varnishing  a  remarkably  small  work 
which,  it  was  evident,  was  never  likely  to  be  seen  by  anybody 
after  his  own  eyes  were  withdrawn. 

Heatherleigh  turned  to  me. 

"I  am  going  to  blindfold  you,  and  lead  you  up  to  my  'Lady 
Teazle,'  that  you  may  be  astonished — " 

IJut  it  was  too  late.  There,  at  the  head  of  the  room,  from  out 
of  the  wilderness  of  brilliant  colors  and  gold  frames,  looked  the 
calm  face  of  "  Kilmeny  !"  The  wall  seemed  to  dance  before  my 
eyes;  the  yellow  frames  became  a  misty  spider' s-wcb  of  gold,  the 
delicate  lines  crossing  and  interweaving;  and  Kilmeny  looked 
like  a  phantom  amid  these  bewildering,  moving  splatches  of  color. 
It  was  like  one  of  those  half-conscious  dreams  in  which  you  sec 
the  face  of  one  who  is  dead,  or  as  good  as  dead  to  you,  and  you 
<|uite  well  know  that  it  is  impossible  the  beautiful  face  should  be 
so  near  you.  I  walked  up  to  the  picture  in  a  kind  of  stupor; 
a!id  met  the  gaze  of  tlic  eyes  that  I  knew.  The  picture  did  not 
melt  into  mist.  I  looked  round  alxmt  it,  and  the  other  pictures 
were  stable. 

"  You  are  lucky,"  said  a  strange  voice  at  my   shouMcr,  and, 


THE    ROYAL    ACADEMY.  217 

turning,  I  saw  one  of  my  companions  of  the  life-class,  a  man  who 
had  just  returned  from  Brittany.  "  Your  first  picture  in  the 
Academy,  isn't  it?" 

"  Yes,"  I  said,  with  some  fear  that  I  was  lying  ;  and  that  "  Kil- 
meny"  would  suddenly  vanish,  and  be  replaced  by  the  real  pict- 
ure which  ought  to  be  there. 

"  Don't  look  so  scared,"  said  Heatherleigh.  "  It  isn't  a  ghost, 
although  many  people  will  fancy  that  Kilmeny,  with  her  wonder- 
ful face,  has  just  come  out  of  the  land  of  spirits,  with  a  cloud  of 
impalpable  dreams  around  her.  Don't  you  think  so,  Jackson  ?  It 
is  the  most  visionary  face  that  I  have  ever  seen  painted.  Would 
you  believe  that  Ives  wanted  to  keep  it  at  home — nay,  had  kept 
it  at  home,  and  that  it  is  here  against  his  will  ?" 

With  that  he  turned  to  iwc. 

"  Ted,  your  mother  and  I  did  it.  She  found  the  picture  out ; 
I  carried  it  off  and  put  it  in  another  frame — I'll  trouble  you  for 
£6  10s.  when  I  come  to  pay  Weavle's  bill — and  here  you  are. 
You  won't  be  such  a  fool  as  to  carry  off  the  picture  now — indeed, 
you  dare  not,  for  the  Academicians  would  have  your  life.  And 
look  at  the  place  they  have  given  you — it  is  as  good  as  a  notice 
in  the  Times.'''' 

Now  it  seemed  to  me  that  the  man  on  the  top  of  the  tall  steps 
was  a  great  friend  of  mine.  I  hoped  his  picture  was  well-paint- 
ed ;  I  compassionated  him  in  that  it  had  been  "  skied  ;"  I  trusted 
he  had  pictures  elsewhere.  The  other  men,  too,  about  the  rooms 
— did  they  not  suddenly  assume  a  kindly  expression  ?  I  was  now 
a  fellow-laborer  of  theirs ;  whereas,  when  I  entered  the  place,  I 
was  an  outcast  and  a  stranger.  I  hoped  they  had  all  painted 
good  pictures ;  that  the  public  would  be  kind  to  them  all ;  that 
they  were  all  "  on  the  line."  Yet  it  was  clear  from  many  of  their 
faces  that  it  was  possible  to  be  above  or  below  the  line,  and  still 
be  happy. 

"  Wliat  do  you  say,  then  ?"  asked  Heatherleigh,  a  little  timidly. 

"  Now  it  is  done,  I  am  glad  you  have  done  it." 

"  And  I  promise  to  tell  Hester  Burnham  all  about  it,  and  that 
it  was  my  doing." 

"  Yes,  I  suppose  she  will  come  here,"  I  said,  absently,  for  I  fan- 
cied I  could  see  her  walk  up  to  the  picture. 

"Undoubtedly.  And  Bonnie  Lesley  is  coming  to  buy  '  Kil- 
meny-'     I  have  told  her  so  much  about  it  that  she  is  jealous ;  and 

K 


218  KILMENY. 

I  fancy,  so  soon  as  she  has  acquired  possession  of  the  picture,  she 
will  cut  it  to  pieces  more  effectually  than  you  did." 

"  She  will  have  some  difficulty  in  becoming  the  owner,  as  I 
promised  to  give  it  to  Mr.  Webb,  if  it  got  into  the  Academy,  for 
£20  beyond  what  anybody  might  offer  for  it." 

"  It  would  be  no  bad  plan,  then,  to  get  Bonnie  Lesley  to  offer 
£500  for  it.  Of  course  you  must  take  off  a  few  pounds  in  con- 
sideration of  the  picture  having  been  reduced  in  size  by  a  couple 
of  inches.  Ted,  my  boy,  I  consider  myself  your  best  friend,  and 
herel)y  invite  myself  to  dine  with  you  at  Greenwich,  now  that  the 
whitebait  have  come  in." 

We  had  a  walk  around  the  rooms ;  but  I  fancied  the  eyes  of 
Kilmeny  followed  me,  and  they  were  not  quite  so  reproachful  as 
they  had  been. 

"  Now  that  I  am  in  for  it,"  said  I  to  Heatherleigh,  "  I  shall  make 
the  best  or  the  worst  of  it.  Could  you  get  to  know  when  Miss 
Burnham  is  likely  to  visit  the  exhibition  ?" 

"  I  will  try.     What  then  ?" 

"  I  should  like  to  come  here,  and  watch  her  from  a  little  dis- 
tance, and  see  how  she  takes  it." 

"Ah,  you  wish  to  see  the  flush  of  pride  and  pleasure  on  her 
face  r 

"  No,"  I  said,  gravely  enough — for  it  seemed  to  me  that  the 
temporary  triumph  of  showing  off  my  poor  picture  was  but  a 
trifle  compared  with  other  and  life-long  considerations — "  I  want 
to  see  if  she  understands  why  the  picture  is  there,  or  if  she  mis- 
apprehends it  altogether,  and  so  is  likely  to  raise  another  barrier 
between  us,  far  more  insuperable  than  the  other,  never  to  be  re- 
moved. What  if  she  were  to  think,  even  for  a  moment,  that  I 
had  used  her  face  to  further  my  own  ambition — that  I  had  dared 
to  demean  her  before  all  these  people — do  you  think  sucli  a 
tliouglit  could  ever  be  effaced  from  between  us?  And  I  should 
read  it  in  her  eyes  in  a  moment !" 

"Ted,"  said  Heatherleigh,  kindly,  "that  girl  is  more  womanly 
and  wise  than  you  fancy.  She  will  understand  it,  and  she  will 
understand  you,  without  any  interference  of  mine." 

"  And  I  ask  of  you  not  to  mention  tlie  matter  to  her.  It  wil\ 
be  a  test  of  confidences  between  us." 

"So  be  it,"  he  .said;  "but  I  fear  you  set  too  great  store  upon 
luT  intrrprctation  of  your  motives," 


leb'  wohl  !  219 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

leb'  wohl  ! 

It  was  some  little  time  before  Hester  Burnham  came  into  town, 
and  I  waited  with  some  impatience  for  her  visit  to  the  Academy. 
In  the  mean  time  the  gracious  eyes  of  Kilmeny  had  softened  all 
the  critics'  hearts,  and  they  talked  of  her  in  a  way  that  tilled  me 
with  gratitude.  For  somehow  I  fancied  that,  in  praising  her,  they 
were  praising  that  other  Kilmeny,  who  still  lingered  among  the 
Burnham  woods,  and  I  treasured  up  every  scrap  of  ciiticism  that 
had  a  word  to  say  about  the  tenderness  of  her  face  or  the  wonder 
of  her  eyes. 

I  can  remember  the  first  criticism  that  appeared  on  the  picture. 
Heatherleigh  and  I  were  seated  in  that  dining-place  near  the  top 
of  Regent  Street  in  which  the  members  of  the  Sunmer  Society 
used  to  congregate.  We  were  all  alert  in  scanning  the  newspapers 
at  this  time  (a  few  days  after  the  opening  of  the  exhibition)  to 
see  what  our  fate  was  to  be.  Heatherleigh  had  been  attentively 
reading  one  of  the  morning-papers  for  some  time,  when,  without 
a  word,  he  handed  it  over  to  me. 

"Kilmeny"  was  the  first  word  I  saw;  and  then,  as  I  read  on, 
it  seeuied  to  me  as  though  there  were  behind  the  gray  paper  and 
type  a  kind  and  earnest  face  that  I  was  not  familiar  with,  and 
that  nevertheless  seemed  to  be  filled  with  a  grave  and  friendly  in- 
terest. Is  there  any  gratitude  like  the  gratitude  of  a  young  artist 
to  the  first  critic  who  speaks  well  of  him,  and  lends  him  the  wings 
of  encouragement  and  hope?  To  my  knowledge  I  have  never 
seen  this  invisible  friend  who  spoke  so  warmly  and  confidently 
about  my  first  tentative  effort;  yet  I  have  never  forgotten  the 
desire  I  experienced  to  know  him  and  thank  him,  and  how  I  came 
to  fancy  that,  if  I  saw  him  anywhere,  I  should  instantly  recognize 
him. 

Other  writers,  no  less  generous,  spoke  in  a  similar  strain,  until 
"  Kilmeny  "  came  to  be  looked  on  as  one  of  the  features  of  the 
exhibition.     Could  I  wonder  at  it  ?     It  was  a  face,  seen  anywhere, 


220  KILMENY. 

that  all  men  must  worship ;  and  the  glamour  of  Kilmen} 's  eyes 
blinded  them  to  the  imperfections  of  my  handiwork. 

Of  course,  there  was  great  joy  in  our  small  circle ;  and  it  was 
no  uncommon  thing  for  Polly  to  appear  before  we  had  sat  down 
to  breakfast,  flourishing  a  newspaper  in  her  hand.  How  she  man- 
aged to  get  a  look  over  all  the  papers  published  in  London,  at 
such  an  early  hour,  I  never  could  make  out ;  but  one  thing  was 
certain,  she  never  missed  the  least  mention  of  Kilmcny's  name. 

I  met  Bonnie  Lesley  at  the  Lewisons'  several  times.  Wc  were 
on  very  intimate  terms  now  ;  our  past  relations,  and  her  confes- 
sion, singularly  enough,  not  having  left  a  trace  of  restraint  in  her 
manner  towards  me. 

We  were  very  good  friends,  as  I  said  ;  and  I  may  hereafter  say 
something  of  a  notable  excursion  we  made  together  to  Richmond. 
Meanwhile,  she  had  written  to  Hester  Burnham  to  ask  when  she 
was  coming  to  town. 

"  AVhat  a  pity  it  is  that  Hester  won't  take  a  house  in  town, 
like  other  people,"  said  Miss  Lesley. 

"If  you  got  accustomed  to  living  at  Burnham,  you  would  un- 
derstand why  she  docs  not,"  I  said. 

"  I  suppose  she  is  waiting  for  Mr.  Alfred  to  take  the  house  for 
her." 

"  I  suppose  so," 

"  It  seems  a  pity,"  said  Bonnie  Lesley,  musingly ;  "  but  you 
often  see  people  who  seem  to  have  marriages  made  for  them. 
They  come  in  a  natural  sort  of  way,  and  you  never  think  of  avoid- 
ing them.  I  don't  believe  Hester  cares  much  for  her  cousin,  and 
yet  you  will  see  that  she  will  drift  into  a  nuu'riage  with  him,  (juitc 
involuntarily." 

"  Very  likely." 

"  Indeed,  I  fancy  she  would  marry  him  now,  if  he  cared  to  ask 
her." 

"Why  .locsn't  he?" 

"  Well,"  she  said,  with  a  pretty  smile,  **  it  would  be  a  little  too 
apparent  just  now  that  she  would  have  to  support  him.  I  dare 
say  he  is  waiting  to  get  some  sort  of  position  or  commission,  by 
way  of  excuse," 

Then  she  added — 

"Did  I  tell  you  she  was  coming  to  town  on  Monday?  One 
advantage  of  her  not  having  a  house  in  Loiidoji  is  that  T  get  more 


LEB     WOHL  !  221 

of  her  when  she  comes.  She  will  stay  here ;  and  on  Tuesday,  I 
should  think,  we  shall  go  to  the  Academy,  Will  you  meet  us 
there  ?" 

"  I  am  afraid  I  can't  promise." 

"  She  knows  all  about  the  picture,  you  understand,  and  how  all 
London  is  talking  of  her  portrait." 

"  Did  you  tell  her  it  was  her  portrait  ?"  I  asked,  with  a  sudden 
qualm. 

"  Certainly — her  portrait,  more  or  less.  But  what  was  it  Mr. 
Heatherleigh  said  about  its  being  Hester  clad  in  dreams?  It  is 
more  that  than  a  portrait." 

Early  on  the  Tuesday  morning  I  went  down  to  the  front  of  the 
National  Gallery,  and  walked  up  and  down  the  east  side  of  Traf- 
algar Square,  waiting  to  see  Mr.  Lewison's  brougham  arrive.  It 
was  nearly  twelve  o'clock  when  I  saw  the  easily  recognized  pair 
of  chestnuts  and  the  dark-green  carriage  coming  along  from  the 
west.  Still  keeping  some  distance  off,  I  saw  the  occupants  get 
out — Bonnie  Lesley,  Mr.  Lewison,  Mrs.  Lewison,  and  Hester  Burn- 
ham.  I  saw  her  go  up  the  broad  steps — the  small,  graceful, 
queenly  figure,  and  the  long,  floating,  dark-brown  hair  causing  her 
to  look  like  the  princess  of  one  of  the  old  Danish  ballads — with 
Bonnie  Lesley,  in  her  brilliant  costume  of  blue  and  white,  at  her 
side.     Then  they  went  inside,  and  were  lost  from  sight. 

I  slunk  into  the  place.  The  crowd  was  dense ;  but  I  made  my 
way  to  the  corner  of  the  room  in  which  "  Kilmeny  "  was  hung, 
that  I  might  see  how  she  would  walk  up  to  the  picture  and  look 
at  it.  I  was  barely  in  time ;  for  they  had  gone  straight  thither. 
I  could  see  Bonnie  Lesley  laughing  merrily;  and  there  was  on 
Hester  Burnham's  face  a  confused,  timid  smile.  They  approached 
the  picture.  The  smile  died  away  from  her  face.  In  its  stead 
there  was  a  strange,  wistful  look,  as  one  might  look  at  one's  por- 
trait of  many  years  ago  ;  and  just  at  that  moment  I  caught  the 
wonderful  likeness  between  the  weirdness  of  Kilmeny's  eyes  and 
her  own.  It  was  imagination,  doubtless ;  but  it  seemed  to  me  as 
if  the  living  Kilmeny  stood  there,  with  the  wonders  of  the  other 
world  upon  her,  a  vision  among  men. 

"Nae  smile  was  seen  on  Kilmeny's  face; 
As  still  was  her  look,  and  as  still  was  her  ee, 
As  the  stillness  that  sleeps  on  the  emerant  lea, 
Or  the  mist  that  sleeps  on  a  waveless  sea." 


222  KILMENY. 

In  the  middle  of  tlie  dense,  chattering  mass  of  people  she  stood, 
and  it  seemed  as  though  the  breath  of  heaven  still  clung  about 
her,  and  made  an  impassable  barrier  around  her,  separating  her 
from  the  crowd.  I  could  not  stand  there  any  more.  I  went  fur- 
ward  to  her  suddenly,  and  took  her  hand.  She  looked  up,  in  a 
bewildered  sort  of  way,  and  then  a  faint  blush  sprang  to  her  face. 

"  You  are  not  vexed  that  this  should  be  here  ?"  I  said. 

She  glanced  into  my  eyes  for  a  moment — with  a  look  that  I 
shall  never  forget — and  then  she  said,  slowly,  and  in  i  voice  so 
low  that  no  one  around  could  hear — 

"  I  thank  you." 

With  that  Bonnie  Lesley  came  forward  and  protested  blithely 
there  should  be  no  quarrelling — and  so  forth,  and  so  forth.  I  es- 
caped from  them  out  into  the  open  air,  and  walked  1  knew  not 
whither,  with  a  new  life  tingling  within  me.  I  walked  on  blindly. 
The  man  who  has  never  been  so  keenly  happy  as  to  be  unable  to 
remain  at  rest  has  never  known  the  extreme  of  happiness.  There 
was  not  in  London  a  drunker  man  than  I  was  at  that  moment. 

Hester  Burnham  remained  in  town  some  three  weeks,  I  never 
saw  her  during  this  time.  I  dared  not  go  near  the  house ;  and 
by  some  means  or  other  managed  to  evade  Mrs.  Lewison's  repeat- 
ed invitations.  I  was  engaged  in  preparing  for  my  going  abroad, 
and  was  busy. 

Yet  the  autumn  was  approacliing  before  I  was  ready  to  start. 
Mr.  Webb,  who  had  become  the  owner  of  "  Kilmeny,"  had  crowned 
his  many  friendly  acts  by  arranging  that  I  should  not  only  join 
I'rofessor  Kunzeu's  pupils,  but  alscj  board  in  the  Professor's  house. 
And  when  everything  was  ready,  and  all  my  plans  of  operations 
sketched  out,  I  privately  slipped  away  down  into  liuckinghani- 
shire,  to  bid  good-bye  to  the  woods  of  Burnham. 

It  is  worth  while,  I  think,  for  a  man  to  become  an  artist  that 
he  may  learn  to  perceive  the  pi(turcs(|U('n('ss  of  a  dull  ;ind  windy 
day.  Summer  as  it  was,  the  Itroad  plains  and  far  hills  oi  Bucks 
looked  strangely  forli)rn;  ;ind  there  was  a  wild  picturesqueness 
about  the  masses  of  Hying  gray  cloud,  and  the  sombre  hedges, 
ami  the  dark  oaks  that  were  clearly  and  gloomily  marked  against 
the  pale  sky.  The  Burnham  valley,  stretehing  up  from  Misseii- 
den,  looked  like  one  of  those  intense,  low-toned  French  landscapes, 
in  which  you  seem  to  perceive  the  blowing  of  a  bleak  and  blus- 
terin"   wind.      But,  alth(»utrh    I    waiidtTed   all   about   the   familiar 


leb'  wohl  !  223 

places  during  this  long  and  desolate  day,  I  dared  not  go  near 
Burnham. 

It  was  night  when  I  went  up  there — a  dark  night,  with  no 
stars  visible.  A  cold  wind  came  over  the  hills,  and  you  could 
hear  the  rustle  of  innumerable  trees  in  the  darkness.  Any  one 
less  acquainted  with  the  road  would  have  had  a  hard  fight  to  avoid 
the  hedges ;  but  I  knew  every  step  of  the  way,  and  at  length 
found  myself  in  the  great  avenue  leading  up  to  Burnham  House. 

There  was  no  sight  or  sound  discernible  around  the  solitary 
building — only  the  murmur  of  the  wind  through  the  cedars  and 
the  beeches.  Nor  was  there  any  light  in  the  windows ;  for  the 
family  lived  in  the  more  modern  part  of  the  house,  which  was 
not  visible  from  the  front.  But  it  was  on  this  space  in  front  of 
the  house  that  Hester  Burnham  and  I  used  to  play,  many  a  year 
ago,  when  we  were  children  ;  and  it  was  here  I  used  to  wait  for 
her  until  I  saw  her  bright  face  at  the  window  above. 

If  the  window  would  but  open  now  !  Here,  in  the  darkness, 
might  not  one  speak  freely  and  boldly,  and  say  good-bye  as  it 
ought  to  be  said  ?  If  the  window  were  but  open,  and  Kihneny 
there,  listening  !  I  could  almost  imagine  that  she  was  actually 
there  at  this  moment,  and  I  looked  up  in  the  darkness,  and  whis- 
pered— 

"  Listen,  before  I  go !  Let  me  tell  you,  now,  when  it  won't 
matter.  I  have  loved  you  always ;  I  shall  love  you  always.  You 
cannot  prevent  me  loving  you.  I  have  loved  you  since  ever  I 
was  able  to  look  into  your  eyes  ;  and  I  must  love  you  to  the  end. 
Now,  good-bye,  and  may  God  guard  you,  my  very  dearest,  and 
keep  you  safe  from  harm." 

There  was  no  sound  in  reply  but  the  rustle  of  the  leaves.  The 
great  front  of  the  house  remained  still  and  silent,  the  windows 
cold  and  dark.  So  I  turned  away  from  Burnham,  and  from  my 
love ;  and  nothing  seemed  to  say  good-bye,  except  it  were  the  tall 
and  ghostly  trees,  as  the  cold  wind  of  the  night  blew  through 
them. 


224  KILMENV. 


CHAPTER   XXVI. 

THE    VILLA    LORENZ. 

"  GooD-MORNixG,  Mr.  Sun  !  How  do  you  do  this  mornino^,  and 
bow  have  you  slept  ?  I  hope  you  are  going  to  bring  us  a  bright 
and  pretty  day;  for  the  Herr  Papaken,  and  the  Frau  Maniaken, 
and  Annele  and  I  are  all  going  out  for  a  walk  in  the  Englischer 
Garten.  Good-morning,  Mr.  Linden -tree !  And  how  have  you 
slept?  You — Itandsorne  old  man  that  you  are — you  must  not 
think  of  turning  yellow  yet.  Good -morning,  Messieurs  et  Mes- 
dames  Sparrows !     I  shall  have  some  crumbs  for  you  presently." 

I  became  drowsily  aware  that  the  soft  and  pretty  German  I 
heard  came  from  the  lips  of  little  Lena  Kuuzen,  who  had  just 
thrown  her  casements  open,  to  let  the  sunlight  into  her  small 
chamber,  which  was  apparently  next  to  mine.  I  jumped  out  of 
bed,  and  found  the  morning  well  advanced,  a  golden  flood  of  light 
falling  over  the  smooth  pastures  and  stately  trees  of  the  English 
farden,  and  on  the  branch  of  the  Lsar  that  runs  tlirough  and 
around  and  about  them. 

The  Konigin  Strasse  of  Munich  is,  as  you  may  know,  a  long 
and  (piiet  street  that  leads  down  from  the  llofgarten  and  skirts 
the  Englischer  Garten,  the  handsome  trees  of  which  it  fronts. 
Here  dwelt  the  Herr  Professor  Kunzen,  his  kindly,  commonplace 
wife,  and  his  wicked  and  witchijig  little  daughter.  Anybody  who 
is  familiar  with  the  sort  of  bouses  in  the  suburbs  of  Leipslc,  or 
lierlin,  i>r  IJaden,  will  know  what  the  Villa  Loreiiz  was  like — a 
large,  square,  white  house,  with  white  casements  outside  all  the 
windows,  and  with  white  balconies  projecting  from  tlie  first  story, 
these  balconies  hung  witli  trailing  creepers  of  various  kinds,  tum- 
Iding  in  masses  of  light-green  leaves  about  the  white  ]»oreh.  Then 
a  small  enclosure  in  front,  with  a  small  white  statue,  and  fountain 
in  the  centre,  separated  from  the  street  by  a  row  of  acacias,  with 
here  and  tliere  a  rowan-tree  ajid  a  sumach,  just  getting  crimson. 
Peliind,  a  larger  garden,  with  bowers  covered  with  Virginia  creep- 
ers, and  another  dirty-white  figure  and  a  roiintain. 


THE    VILLA    LORENZ.  225 

The  Professor  was  a  tall,  well-made  man  of  about  fifty,  with  a 
shy,  womanisli  sensitiveness  about  his  ways  and  manner  which 
did  not  seem  to  correspond  with  his  athletic  frame  and  his  pro- 
digious pedestrian  powers.  But  it  accorded  well  with  his  face 
when  you  came  to  know  it — when  you  got  to  see  its  emotional 
softness,  and  the  quick  way  that  a  blush  would  spring  to  the  pale 
and  rather  sunken  cheek,  whenever  the  Professor  had  given  way 
to  a  sudden  access  of  enthusiasm.  Such  occasions  were  rare ;  for 
he  was  a  very  shy  man,  who  did  not  like  to  disclose  himself.  He 
was  full  of  strong  and  generous  sympathies,  the  fruit  of  a  remark- 
ably simple  and  childlike  nature  ;  but  he  had  got  into  such  a  habit 
of  hiding  away  his  inner  feelings,  that  you  would  have  consid- 
ered him  merely  a  thoughtful-looking  man,  timid  in  manner,  and 
with  strong  tendencies  towards  idealism  in  his  dark,  soft,  deeply 
intrenched  eyes. 

His  wife  was  a  short,  rather  dumpy  woman,  a  shrewd  and  sen- 
sible housekeeper,  practical  in  her  notions,  and  very  fond  of  her 
husband,  over  whose  negligent  habits  and  odd  ways  she  was  con- 
tinually complaining.  I  think  she  looked  upon  him  as  half-mad ; 
and  was  thankful  he  had  had  the  sense  to  marry  a  woman  capa- 
ble of  looking  after  him  and  his  house.  As  for  his  pictures,  she 
knew  nothing  of  them  beyond  the  price  they  fetched.  She  was 
proud  to  see  his  name  in  the  papers,  and  she  behaved  with  cir- 
cumspection when  great  people  visited  the  Villa  Lorenz ;  but  she 
took  care  to  make  it  understood  that  she  would  not  talk  about 
art. 

"  He  knows  enough  for  both  of  us,"  she  used  to  say,  sensibly ; 
"  I  busy  myself  with  other  matters." 

Under  the  circumstances,  there  could  be  no  great  communion 
between  man  and  wife.  The  Professor  never  revealed  his  solitary 
enthusiasms  to  his  spouse ;  and  she  was  satisfied  in  doing  her 
duty  as  regarded  the  wonderful  freshness  and  purity  of  the  linen 
of  the  house,  and  also  as  regarded  the  cooking.  There  were  sev- 
eral things  she  always  cooked  herself;  and  her  honest  face  beamed 
with  pleasure  if  you  praised  her  preserves.  The  Frau  Professor's 
coffee  I  have  never  found  equalled  anywhere. 

Now,  how  did  this  strangely  assorted  couple  ever  come  to  have 
such  a  daughter  as  little  Lena  Kunzen  ?  This  small  witch,  with 
her  short  light-brown  curls,  and  her  big  gray  eyes  that  were  full 
of  mischief,  was  a  perpetual  torment  to  her  surprised  and  grieved 

K2 


226  KILMENY. 

mother,  and  a  perpetual  puzzle  to  the  shy  Professor,  who  used  to 
sit  and  watch  her  as  if  he  wondered  if  this  wild  creature  were 
really  a  daughter  of  his.  The  fun  of  it  was  that  both  of  them 
loved  her  to  distraction  ;  for,  with  a  kitten's  drollery,  she  had  a 
kitten's  captivating  ways,  and  could  get  atonement  at  any  mo- 
ment for  her  mad  pranks  by  a  little  fondling  and  coaxing.  She 
was  about  fifteen,  but  a  perfect  child  in  most  respects;  and,  doubt- 
less, much  of  her  waywardness  of  manner  and  habit  had  arisen 
from  the  fact  that  she  had  mixed  little  with  strangers,  and  had 
been  allowed  to  do  pretty  much  as  she  liked  in  her  own  home. 
Sometimes,  too,  the  wild,  madcap  spirit  seemed  to  go  right  out  of 
her,  and  she  sat  nmte  and  pensive,  with  a  look  of  her  father's 
dreaminess  about  her  eyes.  At  such  times  she  used  to  show  a 
strong  resemblance  to  a  portrait  of  a  shoemaker's  daughter,  which 
you  will  find  in  the  second  room  of  Stieler's  "  Portraits  of  the 
Most  Beautiful  Women,"  in  the  Festsaalbau.  This  latter  is  a  face 
that  is  unforgetable.  It  has  all  the  finer  characteristics  of  the  in- 
tellectual South  German  face — the  broad  forehead,  the  calm,  re- 
flective eye,  the  delicately  shaped  nose,  the  short  upper  lip,  and 
that  peculiar  deeply  cut  under  lip  which  one  never  finds  out  of 
Germany.  Let  me  add,  here,  that  my  greatest  trouble  in  all  my 
art-studies  in  Germany  was  with  this  type  of  face.  It  seems  al- 
most impossible  for  an  English  artist  to  escape  from  painting  the 
self-consciousness  which  is  the  obvious  characteristic  of  the  finest 
English  female  faces.  You  will  find  the  type  of  German  face  of 
which  I  speak  painted  by  English  artists,  and  while  the  features 
are  there,  there  is  superadded  that  pitiful  trick  of  consciousness 
which  is  only  not  a  smirk  because  the  lips  arc  thoughtful.  The 
difliiculty  is  to  give  the  wonderful  self-possession  and  self-regard- 
lessness  of  such  a  face,  without  making  it  merely  commonj)lace 
and  dull.  It  is  a  difliculty ;  and  an  Englishman,  1  fancy,  can  only 
get  over  it  by  change  of  climate — by  leaving  our  cold  and  fogs 
and  bustle  for  the  warmer  air  and  tlie  mellower  life  of  the  South. 
If  one  of  the  woiiHsn  whom  Iiaphacl  painted  had  been  introduced 
to  our  life-class  as  a  model,  what  harsh  and  coarse  interpretations 
of  her  would  have  been  the  result! 

To  return  to  Lena.  Her  constant  companion  was  a  small 
white  goat,  which  had  been  given  her  as  a  present.  It  was  vari- 
ously called  Anna,  Annele,  and  Aennchen  ;  and  its  mistress  was 
fond  of  expressing  her  love  for  her  favorite  by  singing — 


THE    VILLA    LORENZ.  221 

"  Aennclien  von  Tliarau  ist,  die  mir  frefallt, 
Sie  ist  mein  Leben,  mein  Gut  uiid  ineiii  Geld  ; 
Aennchen  von  Tiuirau  hat  wieder  ilir  Herz 
Auf  mich  gerielitet  in  Freud'  und  in  ISchmerz;" 

and  then,  at  other  times,  she  would  sing,  to  a  tune  of  her  own, 
the  plaintive  old  lines — 

"Isch  's  Anneli  nit  do? 
S'  vvird  legne,  wird  schneie, 
S'  wild  's  Anneli  g'wiss  reue. 
Isch  's  Anneli  nit  do  ?" 

By  rights,  Aennchen  von  Tharau  should  have  been  a  gentle  and 
timid  creature,  so  that  she  and  her  mistress  might  have  looked 
like  the  group  of  the  pretty  goatherd  and  her  pet,  which  is  a  fa- 
vorite subject  for  lithographs.  On  the  contrary,  the  small  white 
Aennchen  was  a  demon  of  wickedness ;  and  it  was  fortunate  that 
her  malice  was  not  equalled  by  her  strength.  She  loved  to  run 
at  children  unawares,  taking  a  mean  advantage  of  them  from  be- 
hind, and  tumbling  them  at  the  feet  of  their  nurses.  Indeed,  she 
had  all  manner  of  tricks ;  which  were  rather  encouraged  than  re- 
pressed by  her  mistress,  who  used  to  shout  with  laughter  when 
Annele  had  done  something  especially  naughty.  The  same  spirit 
appeared  to  dwell  in  both ;  and  Lena  used  to  lament  bitterly  that 
her  goat  should  be  prevented  by  nature  from  enjoying  the  fun  of 
hearing  my  blunders  among  the  German  verbs.  Lena  was  wont 
to  tell  her  friends  that,  on  the  first  day  I  dined  there,  I  had  offer- 
ed her  some  "  Pantoffelnsalat" — an  audacious  figment,  which  used 
to  make  her  laugh  till  the  tears  ran  down  her  cheeks. 

Lena  had  a  lover.  His  name  was  Franz  Vogl ;  and  he  was  one 
of  the  Professor's  half-dozen  pupils.  Vogl  was  not  a  handsome 
lover.  Nature  seemed  to  have  meant  him  for  a  comedian — his 
face  having  precisely  that  odd  irregularity  which  nearly  every 
comic  actor  exhibits.  But  in  every  other  way  Franz  was  a  most 
desirable  sweetheart.  He  was  full  of  fun ;  he  was  immensely 
good-hearted  and  kind ;  he  was  never  out  of  spirits ;  and  he  play- 
ed the  zither  in  a  way  that  won  all  hearts  to  him.  I  have  heard 
the  zither  played  by  many  people,  but  never  as  Franz  Vogl  played 
it.  In  his  hands  it  became  another  instrument.  It  lost  all  the 
twanginess  of  the  guitar,  and  gave  forth  such  wails  of  passionate 
feeling — so  human-like  in  the  cry — that,  when  it  was  all  over,  the 
people  used  to  look  at  Vogl's  humorous,  commonplace  face,  and 
wonder  whether  he  were  nut  a  maoician. 


228  KILMENY. 

"  Franz,  Franz,"  Lena  would  often  cry,  potulantly,  "  wliy  can't 
you  teach  me  to  play  the  zither  ?" 

"  You  will  never  be  able  to  play  the  zither,  Linele." 

He  was  a  Waldshnter,  and  constantly  used  the  rustic  dimin- 
utives, and  frequently  the  rustic  dialect,  he  had  learned  when 
young. 

"  But  why,  why,  why,  Franz  ?  I  don't  understand  what  you 
say  about  the  thrill  at  the  end  of  your  lingers.     Is  it  electricity  ?" 

"  Perhaps  it  is.  At  all  events,  without  that,  you  will  never  do 
more  with  the  zither  than  what  most  people  do — play  a  jerky 
sort  of  music,  in  the  ordinary,  staccato  fashion." 

"  And  I  can  see  your  fingers  lio\ering  over  the  strings,  until 
the  cry  of  the  music  in  the  air  makes  me  think  of  a  human  voice 
overhead,  and  I  get  almost  afraid.  Did  you  see  how  that  dear 
little  Marie  Schleiermann  cried  last  night  when  you  were  playing 
the  Chant  hohemien  V 

"  That  was  because  poor  Friedrich  Kink  used  to  play  it.  I  was 
a  fool  not  to  remember  that." 

*'  But  your  playing  makes  me  so  wretched  sometimes  that  I  am 
near  crying,  too.  Franz,  you  are  conceited,  and  you  won't  teach 
me  to  play  the  zither  because  you  will  have  nobody  but  yourself 
make  people  cry." 

"  I  will  teach  you  the  zither,  if  you  like,  Linele." 

"  Oh,  yes !  To  go  strum,  strum — twang,  twang — like  old  Frau 
Becher  and  her  guitar.  No!  I  want  to  be  able  to  make  it  cry 
and  sob,  and  then  laugh  again  ;  I  want  to  do  everything ;  and, 
oh,  my  poor  Aennchen,  I  can't  do  anything." 

With  which  she  would  clasp  Annele  around  the  neck,  and  pre- 
tend to  whimper. 

I  have  never  seen  any  man  who  enjoyed  life  better  than  Franz 
Vogl.  It  was  a  part  of  his  sim[>lt'  and  jovous  nature  to  be  pKiasL'd 
with  whatever  he  happened  to  be  doing,  and  that  in  a  hearty, 
happy  way  which  was  remarkably  infectious.  He  was  never  con- 
scious that  he  was  enjoying  himself,  as  lleatherleigh  was;  nor 
did  he  pause  to  estimate  the  value  <»f  his  various  enjoyments. 
He  sang  for  the  pleasure  of  singing;  he  painted  because  he  liked 
painting;  he  enjoyed  a  conversation  with  a  wagon-driver  about 
the  weather  and  fields,  or  with  a  learned  doctor  about  the  deluge. 
He  enjoyed  sleeping,  eating,  drinkini;,  walking,  and  sitting  still ; 
and  yon  always  fourxl  him  ready  with  a  joke  and  a  laugh  at  any 


THE    VILLA    LOREXZ.  229 

time.  His  father  was,  in  his  way,  an  artist.  He  had  a  studio 
some  little  distance  from  Waldshut,  and  there  he  got  up  and 
painted  crucifixes,  and  those  various  pictures  and  decorations 
which  adorn  the  small  way-side  shrines  of  the  peasantry.  He 
was  also  a  bit  of  a  sculptor,  and  had  himself,  with  his  own  meth- 
ods, hewn  out  one  or  two  very  passable  figures  for  the  same  pur- 
pose. Furthermore,  he  had  a  moderately  sized  farm ;  and  Franz 
being  the  only  son,  the  farm  was  to  fall  to  him  in  due  course. 
So  his  future  was  pretty  well  cared  for ;  and  Franz  took  good 
care  to  enjoy  the  present. 

He  was  far  more  of  a  musician  than  a  painter.  Sitting  by  him- 
self, over  his  beloved  zither,  that  was  his  constant  companion 
morning  and  evening,  he  used  to  improvise  in  the  most  wonder- 
ful fashion ;  harmonizing  his  melodies  as  he  went  along,  until 
you  lost  sight  of  the  mechanical  effort,  and  seemed  to  hear  him 
speak  with  this  magnificent,  many-toned  voice.  He  had  a  gener- 
al liking  for  all  the  arts,  and  a  tolerable  proficiency  in  several. 
His  pictures  were  clever,  and  had  a  certain  novelty  of  manner 
about  them  ;  but  Franz  set  little  store  by  them,  and  it  was  clear 
he  was  not  going  to  be  a  great  artist. 

"  If  I  had  an  ambition,"  he  often  said  to  me,  "  it  would  be  to 
write  a  whole  series  of  songs  in  my  native  dialect,  and  set  them 
to  music." 

"  You  can't  feel  the  want  of  a  hobby  much,"  I  said,  "  so  long 
as  you  have  your  zither." 

"  No,"  he  said,  "  I  shouldn't  get  on  very  well  without  my 
zither.  '  Obbis  muess  me  ze  triebe  ha,  sust  het  me  langi  Will.'  * 
I  always  take  my  zither  with  me  when  I  go  on  my  pedestrian 
excursions.  By  the  way,  you  will  accompany  us  on  our  grand 
autumn  excursion  ?" 

"  I  hope  so." 

"  Down  through  the  Gutach-Thal,  and  around  by  the  Constance 
Lake,  and  then,  hey  !  for  a  swing  through  the  clear  air  and  the 
cold  sunsets  of  the  Tyrol !" 

In  the  mean  time  we  were  busy  enough  with  those  opportuni- 
ties of  study  which  this  wonderful  city  afforded.  Every  alternate 
morning  we  went  with  the  Professor  to  the  Old  or  the  New  Pina- 
thothek,  and  there  he,  singling  out  some  particular  picture,  dis- 
cussed its  various  characteristics  and  those  of  the  school  to  which 
*  "  Etwas  muss  man  zu  treiben  haben,  sonst  hat  man  lange  Weile." 


230  KILMENY. 

it  belonged.  Occasionally  we  paid  a  visit  to  the  ormd  Nibe- 
lungen  frescos,  not  then  finished,  until  KrioniliiM  ami  Siegfried, 
the  red-bearded  and  dark-browed  Hagen,  Briinhild,  and  all  the 
other  personages  of  the  mighty  drama  were  familiar  to  us  as  our 
own  friends.     I  confess  that,  at  first,  I  was  a  trifle  disappointed 

with  Krienihild,  the 

.  .  .  "  schcene  magedin, 
Daz  in  alien  Landen  niht  schoeners  mohte  sin;" 

and  looked  upon  her  face  as  characterless  and  wanting  in  emo- 
tional expression.  But  in  time  the  traditions  of  English  facial 
painting  faded  away  from  me,  and  I  got  to  understand  the  stately 
repose  of  the  women  of  the  old  Flemish  and  German  and  Italian 
painters.  Then  we  had  our  exercises  in  composition,  which  were 
grievous  things  for  exposing  one's  ignorance  of  the  rough  mate- 
rial of  art.  A  solecism  or  anachronism  in  costume,  for  example, 
was  instantly  picked  out  by  the  somewhat  wondering  Professor, 
whose  severest  reproof  was  a  hint  that  you  must  have  been  mis- 
led by  some  theatrical  scene.  Of  all  our  little  company,  I  was 
the  most  backward  in  this  respect.  I  knew  as  little  how  to  deal 
with  such  a  subject  as  "Savoyardcnkindcr  auf  dcr  Wanderschaft" 
as  with  such  a  one  as  "Cervantes  win!  von  dcm  Ariiautcn  Manni 
als  Sklave  nach  Algier  gcbracht."  When  the  Professor  announced 
that  the  subject  for  the  following  Monday's  sketch  would  be 
"  Carl  I.  von  England  nimmt  Abschicd  von  scinen  Kindern,"  he 
added,  with  a  smile — 

"This  time,  Ilerr  Edward" — so  he  invariably  named  me,  find- 
ing some  difficulty  in  pronouncing  "Ives" — "you  will  have  the 
advantage.  You  must  be  familiar  with  the  costumes  of  your  own 
country," 

I  don't  know  that,  Ilerr  Professor,''  said  I.  "  With  its  present 
costume,  I  am." 

"The  majority  of  your  countrymen  are  nfins-cu/nttes  —  nicht 
wahr?"  said  Franz  Vogl  with  a  laugh.  "  However,  I  suppose 
Charles  I.  of  England  dressed  in  the  Frenrh  fashion  of  the  time. 
You  English  are  fond  of  French  importations,  arc  yctu  not?" 

"Yes;  we  could  atTonl,  however,  to  do  without  some  of  them 
— eggs  and  dramas,  for  example." 

"The  chief  manufactures  of  England,"  said  Vogl,  "are  lords 
aii<l  beggars.  But  you  can't  produce  kings.  Let  mo  see,  you 
haven't  had  an  English  king  since  Edward  VI." 


THE    VILLA    LORENZ.  231 

"  You  produce  so  many  here  that  you  can  supply  the  markets 
of  the  world  with  them,"  I  said ;  "  and  then  they  have  had  the 
advantage  of  an  economical  bringing-up." 

"  Well,  the  kings  we  have  sent  you,  excepting  William  of 
Orange,  were  rather  a  stupid  lot,  certainly ;  but  they  were  a  good 
deal  better  than  the  Stuarts." 

"  They  couldn't  be  worse,"  I  said,  "  but  they  tried." 

So  the  days  passed  peacefully  away,  in  the  quiet,  white  city. 
Franz  and  I  became  great  friends ;  and  many  a  merry  walk  we 
had,  and  many  a  merry  chat  in  the  beer-garden  "  Zum  Tivoli," 
on  the  wooden  benches,  under  the  great  limes,  fronting  the  nar- 
row strip  of  the  Isar  that  runs  around  the  Englischer  Garten. 
I  had  a  letter  from  England  occasionally ;  sometimes  from  Polly 
Whistler ;  sometimes  from  Ileatherleigh,  who  had  become  a  thorn 
in  the  side  of  the  dealers ;  and  two  letters  I  had  received  from 
Bonnie  Lesley,  containing  abundant  gossip  about  Burnham. 

"  People  have  not  yet  done  speaking  about  '  Kilmeny,'  "  she 
added.  "  When  are  you  going  to  send  us  another  picture  over  ? 
And  this  time,  mind,  it  must  be  no  likeness ;  or,  if  a  likeness — 
well,  I  will  say  no  more.  I  send  you,  as  you  wish,  a  bit  of  the 
great  St.  John's-wort  from  the  Burnham  woods.  I  wrote  for  it 
to  Hester,  who  desires  to  be  remembered  to  you.  But  I  dare  say 
you  have  forgotten  us  all,  and  are  walking  every  evening  with 
some  pretty  Fraulein  along  the  long  green  avenues  near  the  Isar. 
Or  do  you  buy  her  gloves  in  the  Maximilian  Strasse  ?  Or  do  you 
take  her  to  hear  Wagner's  operas  in  the  Hoftheater ;  and  does 
she  call  you  'du'  yet?  Good-bye.  If  you  are  not  too  much  en- 
gaged to  answer  this  impertinent  note,  address  me  at  Burnham, 
whither  I  go  on  Monday  next." 

When  I  got  such  a  letter  as  this,  breathing  of  English  life  and 
associations,  I  used  to  go  out  into  the  "  English  garden,"  and  lie 
down  on  the  banks  of  the  Isar,  near  that  great  open  space  of 
meadow  in  the  middle  of  the  trees.  Lying  here,  with  the  bulbous 
spires  of  the  Domkirche  shut  out  from  sight,  you  might  imagine 
yourself  in  an  English  park;  and  I  used  to  try  to  make  myself 
believe  that  I  was  looking  over  upon  the  Burnham  woods.  Very 
few  people  entered  the  garden  during  the  day,  and  those  who  did 
kept  to  the  shaded  walks  under  the  lindens  and  elms.  Lying 
quite  alone  there,  I  used  to  read  and  re-read  those  portions  of  my 
letters  which  spoke  of  Buckinghamshire,  until  I  should  scarcely 


232  KILMENY. 

have  been  surprised  had  I  seen  Miss  Hester  herself  c\  me  walking 
over  to  me  from  among  the  trees.  For,  indeed,  my  heart  was  a 
sort  of  carrier-pigeon ;  and  the  moment  I  let  it  loose,  it  flew 
straight  back  to  Burnham,  and  only  folded  its  wings  at  the  feet 
of  my  dear  mistress. 


CHAPTER   XXVII. 

DAS    WANDERLEBEN. 


I  THANK  God  for  Germany.  It  was  there  that  I  first  began  to 
throw  off  the  hideous  thrall  that  had  weighed  upon  my  life  in 
England.  It  was  there,  properly  speaking,  that  I  began  to  live. 
Out  of  that  whirl  of  anxious  struggling,  with  its  petty  ambitions, 
its  envious  competitions,  its  narrow  interests,  its  bitter  fears,  that 
had  at  one  time  overawed  and,  later  on,  sickened  me,  I  had  got 
into  the  more  beautiful,  simple,  joyous  life  of  South  Germany. 
Here  was  no  agonized  fretting  and  scrambling  after  wealth,  but 
a  peaceful  moderation,  and  contented  enjoyment  of  small  means. 
Well  do  I  remember  the  half-conscious  blush  of  enthusiasm  that 
passed  over  the  face  of  the  good  Professor,  as  we  stood  above  the 
great  Gutach-Thal,  and  looked  down  upon  its  green  fields,  its 
rushing  stream,  and  the  steep  sides  of  the  mountains  covered  with 
a  dense  green  forest.  We  had  come  over  from  Ilausacb,  and 
walked  along  the  wonderful  valley,  on  either  side  the  precipitous 
and  wooded  hills  steeped  in  a  glorious  sunlight.  From  Tryberg 
we  had  followed  the  winding  road  that  leads  up  the  mountain  to 
St.  Georgen,  and  now,  as  we  stood  some  five  thousand  feet  above 
the  level  of  the  sea,  and  looked  down  into  the  still,  vast  hollow, 
a  more  charming  picture  of  pastoral  life  coiiM  not  have  been  con- 
ceived. Far  below  us,  a  long  wooden  wagon,  drawn  by  a  couple 
of  oxen,  was  coming  slowly  up  the  hill.  By  its  side  were  two 
women,  with  large  white  hats  and  black  rosettes,  with  short  petti- 
coats, puffy  white  sleeves,  and  bronzed  arms  bare  from  the  ell>ow. 
A  young  girl  was  with  them,  whose  profuse  light -brown  hair 
hung  in  two  long  twisted  tails  down  her  back.  There  were  few 
people  now  in  the  fields,  for  the  afternoon  sun  had  begun  to  glow 
with  a  lurid  brilliani'v  on  the  gle;iming  sc'irli't  bnin'hos  of  rowans. 


DAS    WANDERLEBEN.  23-3 

a  row  of  which  beautiful  trees  came  up  all  the  way  from  Tryberg. 
One  side  of  the  ravine  lay  in  shadow  ;  along  the  other  the  warm 
light  fell  on  immense  stretches  of  forest  that  rose  up  to  the  pale 
green  sky.  Underneath  our  feet,  and  yet  far  above  the  bottom 
of  the  glen,  a  large  hawk  sailed  in  the  air,  sometimes  fluttering 
for  a  few  seconds,  and  then  poising  himself  and  remaining  motion- 
less. 

"  I  will  venture  to  call  this  the  Happy  Valley,"  said  the  Pro- 
fessor, with  a  sudden  burst  of  enthusiasm,  "  Here  you  will  find 
neither  rich  people  nor  poor  people ;  but  all  have  fair  labor  and 
moderate  means,  and  a  healthy  and  virtuous  life.  In  England, 
Herr  Edward,  you  are  all  too  rich  or  too  poor ;  and  your  rich  are 
growing  rapidly  richer,  while  your  poor  are  growing  rapidly  poorer. 
What  is  your  general  percentage  of  pauperism  ?" 

"  Twenty-three  per  cent.,  I  believe." 

"Herr  Je !"  exclaimed  the  Professor.  "Here,  I  will  undertake 
to  say,  you  will  not  find  three  people  out  of  every  hundred  who 
are  unable  to  work,  and  who  live  upon  charity.  Is  it  that  your 
taxes  weigh  too  heavily  on  the  poor;  or  do  you  pay  too  expen- 
sively for  your  kings  and  their  circle  ;  or  is  your  population  in- 
creasing more  rapidly  than  your  trade ;  or  are  your  poor  waste- 
ful and  extravagant  when  they  have  work,  and  mean-spirited  when 
they  have  none?" 

"  Du !"  said  Franz,  maliciously,  addressing  one  of  our  small 
company,  by  name  Silber.  "  Do  you  know  why  the  Gutach-Thal 
has  always  been  a  prosperous,  contented  place  ?" 

"  No,"  said  Silber,  a  heavy-looking,  fair  young  man  from  the 
Rhine  country,  who  dressed  like  a  theatrical  student,  and  wore  his 
flaxen  hair  down  to  his  shoulders. 

"  Because  the  people  are  Protestants.  You  have  not  seen  a 
road-side  crucifix  all  the  way  up  from  Tryberg." 

"  Do  the  crucifixes  keep  the  corn  from  growing  ?"  growled 
the  practical  Silber,  who  was  a  good  Catholic  and  an  indifferent 
painter. 

We  had  all  sat  down  by  this  time.  Almost  instinctively  Franz 
unslung  the  case  which  held  his  zither,  took  out  the  instrument, 
laid  it  across  his  knees,  and  let  his  fingers  wander  for  a  second  or 
two  over  the  strings.  And  then  he  sang,  in  a  careless  sort  of 
fashion,  the  story  of  Schiller's  maiden,  who  came,  like  Kilmeny, 
no  one  knew  whence,  into  a  valley  like  the  one  at  our  feet — 


234  KILMEXV. 

"  Sie  war  nicht  in  dem  Thai  geboren, 
Man  wiisste  nicht,  woher  sie  kam, 
Und  schnell  war  ihre  Spur  verloren, 
Sobald  das  Madchen  Abschied  nahm." 

And  then  he  sung  a  tender  farewell  to  the  Gutach-Thal,  and 
greeted  it  "  ein  tausend  Mai,"  as  we  got  up  and  went  on  our 
way. 

Franz  was  not  much  of  a  singer ;  but  you  forgot  that  in  listen- 
ing to  the  wonderful  tones  of  the  zither.  His  singing  was  a  sort 
of  excuse  for  his  playing ;  and  what  was  lacking  in  his  voice  was 
more  than  made  up  by  the  extraordinary,  pathetic  power  of  the 
instrument  that  he  loved  so  well.  Every  spare  half-hour  of  this 
memorable  excursion  was  devoted  to  the  zither ;  and  his  stock  of 
music  was  literally  inexhaustible.  Above  all,  however,  he  pre- 
ferred the  old  VolksUeder  of  the  Black  Forest  and  the  Tyrol  ; 
and  many  a  glad  evening  we  spent  in  remote  country  inns,  with 
Franz's  music  as  our  only  speech. 

We  stayed  this  night  at  St.  Georgen,  on  the  top  of  the  moun- 
tain. There  were  no  other  strangers  in  the  solitary  inn  except 
a  young  girl  and  her  father,  who  were  going  on  next  day  to  Hau- 
sach  by  the  Eilwagen.  She  was  a  pretty  sort  of  girl,  with  dark 
hair  and  eyes,  and  a  mobile,  sensitive  face.  During  dinner — we 
all  happened  to  dine  at  the  same  time — Fianz  became  very 
good  friends  with  the  Herr  Papa,  chiefly  by  reason  of  his 
miraculous  flow  of  stories,  which  kept  the  old  gentleman  laugh- 
ing from  one  end  of  the  meal  to  the  other.  After  dinner,  said 
Franz : 

'  Does  your  daughter  sing,  sir?" 

"  Oh,  yes,  she  sings  a  little." 

"  Will  you  be  so  friendly,  Frjiulein,  as  to  sing  a  little  song,  and 
I  will  give  you  an  accompaniment?  Or  will  yon  hear  me  first? 
My  companions  are  tired  of  me  and  my  zither;  and  I  shall  be 
glad  to  have  a  new  audience." 

But  we  all  sat  down  at  the  table,  when  it  was  cleared,  and  the 
randies  were  lit ;  then  we  took  out  our  cigars  and  pipes,  and  Franz 
placed  his  zither  before  him. 

"  Perhaps  you  can  play  yourself,  Friiulein  ?"  he  asked. 

"  No,"  she  said,  with  a  smile.     "  We  arc  from  Cologne." 

"Then  our  southern  songs  may  be  a  novelty  to  you.  Do  you 
know  '  Es  ritt  ein  Jagersmann  iiber  die  Flur?'  " 


DAS    WANDERLEBEN.  235 

"  Ach,  Gott,  yes  !  But  I  could  hear  it  a  hundred  times,"  she 
said,  softly. 

So  he  sang  the  pathetic  ballad,  and  the  thrilling  joy  and  ten- 
derness and  agony  that  he  woke  from  the  strings  of  the  zither 
seemed  to  make  the  song  almost  a  dramatic  impersonation.  You 
could  see  the  huntsman  riding  gayly  home,  blowing  his  horn  to 
let  his  "  Herzliebchcn  "  know  he  was  coming.  Then  his  wonder 
that  she  was  not  at  the  threshold  to  kiss  him — his  entrance  into 
the  house — no  meal  ready  for  him,  no  wine  in  his  cup  ;  and  then 
bis  finding  his  heart's  love  lying  cold  and  dead  among  the  flowers 
in  the  garden.  Then,  with  sharper  and  bitterer  music,  how  he  un- 
bridled his  horse  for  the  last  time,  and  set  him  free ;  how  he  took 
down  his  gun  again  from  the  wall  and  loaded  it  with  "  deadly 
lead ;"  and  how,  with  one  final,  despairing  carol  of  his  hunting- 
song,  he  "  went  home  to  his  heart's  love." 

"  Drauf  stimmt  er  an  den  Jagdgesang, 
Den  lauten  und  fiohliclien  Hoineiklang, 
Trarah  !   trarah !  trarah  ! 
Und  ging  ziim  Heizliebchen  heim." 

"  Sir,  you  make  that  instrument  speak,"  said  the  girl's  father ; 
as  for  her,  she  sat  quite  still  and  silent,  but  I  fancied  I  could  see 
a  slightly  tremulous  motion  of  her  under  lip. 

We  had  the  merriest  of  evenings  in  this  old  Gasthaus.  The 
Fraulein's  Herr  Papa  and  the  Professor  were  soon  deep  in  a  con- 
versation about  the  Black  Forest  people ;  and  the  Papa,  who  had 
been  living  in  Hiifingen,  proudly  declared  that  the  whole  popula- 
tion of  the  town  could  produce  no  more  than  half-a-dozen  paupers 
— six  poor  old  women,  who  inhabited  the  barn-like  building  be- 
queathed by  Prince  Fiirstenberg.  So  we  younger  ones  were  left 
to  our  singing ;  and  the  Fraulein,  with  the  dark  eyes  and  the  pret- 
ty smile,  sang  too,  in  a  timid  way.  We  had  Dr.  Eisenbart,  whose 
wondrous  skill  could  make  the  blind  to  walk  and  the  lame  to  see; 
we  had  Herr  OloflF,  who  met  with  the  Erl-king's  daughter,  and 
grew  deathly  white  and  died ;  Franz  gave  us  that  devil-may-care 
ditty,  "Ich  gehe  meincn  Schlendrian  ;"  and  Silber,  being  from  the 
Rhine-country,  could  not  help  singing  the  "  Loreley."  When  they 
asked  me  for  an  old  English  ballad,  I  felt  puzzled.  Have  we  any? 
Scotland  is  rich  in  old  songs ;  Ireland  has  plenty  ;  but  England —  1 
So  I  took  refuge  in  the  Tyrol ;  and  sang  them  the  song  of  the 


236  KILMENY. 

lover  who  plaited  a  garland  of  flowers,  and  bound  his  heart  in  it, 
and  laid  it  at  his  sweetheart's  feet. 

It  was  a  merry  evening,  and  it  was  a  merry  morning  that  fol- 
lowed ;  for  as  we  crossed  the  top  of  the  mountain,  and  looked  away 
down  into  the  south,  we  saw  the  sunlight  lying  on  the  long,  dark- 
green  hills  of  the  Black  Forest,  and  above  them,  rising  faintly  in 
the  far  horizon,  the  splendid  line  of  the  Bernese  Alps.  The  pros- 
pect of  this  magnificent  plain,  with  its  undulating  masses  of  forest, 
its  scattered  villages,  and  its  winding  river-track,  filled  us  with 
joy,  for  it  said,  "  Henceforth  you  are  cut  off  from  cities.  You 
shall  wander  along  by  river  and  valley,  by  farmstead  and  village, 
forgetting  the  pallid  faces  and  the  sluggish  ways  of  the  dwellers 
in  towns.  Your  hunger  will  grow  sharp,  your  thirst  keen,  your 
sleep  profound  and  sweet.  Then  up  again  and  away  in  the  morn- 
ing, through  the  fine  cool  air !" 

Ye  gods !  how  hungry  one  became  in  that  rare  atmosphere ! 
Cold  veal,  brown  bread,  and  red  Tischwein  became  a  feast  to  us; 
but  when  we  fell  upon  a  more  favored  spot,  where  a  good  land- 
lady could  transform  the  veal  into  a  luxurious  and  occult  "  Fal- 
scher  Vogel ;"  and  when  she  produced  from  her  cunning  cup- 
board a  bottle  of  Affenthaler,  then  we  found  no  words  to  ex- 
press our  delight. 

"  Soon,"  said  Franz,  "  we  shall  leave  the  land  of  the  '  Falscher 
Vogel'  for  the  land  of  the  'Schnitzel.'  We  shall  see  no  more  of 
the  dark-green  forest;  beeches  and  birches  will  mix  with  the  firs. 
We  are  going  farther,  to  fare  worse." 

His  heart  clung  about  the  Black  Forest,  his  native  country.  I 
think  he  would  fain  have  darted  away  from  us,  and  gone  down 
by  Donaueschingen  and  Lenzkirch  and  St.  lilasien  to  his  beloved 
Waldshut.  He  was  just  a  trifle  sad  as  we  turned  our  back  on  the 
dark -green  woods,  and  entered  the  valley  of  the  Danube,  near 
where  the  great  river  rises,  a  small  spring,  in  Prince  Fiirstenberg's 
garden.  But  his  melancholy  did  not  last  long.  The  day  was 
lovely.  On  each  side  of  the  valley  the  great  mountains  were 
covered  with  beech,  now  turning  red  and  yellow,  and  the  sunlight 
burned  along  these  successive  slopes.  So  wc  wandered  on  ;  and 
down  by  Tlialmuhle,  in  the  heart  of  the  hollow,  we  came  upon  a 
small  inn,  that  had  a  bowling-alley  in  the  garden. 

"Who  will  challenge  me?"  said  the  J'rofessor,  with  a 
laugh. 


DAS    WANDERLEBEN.  237 

"  I  will,"  I'eplied  Silber,  who  had  lived  in  Mainz,  and  fancied  he 
knew  how  to  hit  the  front  pin  at  the  proper  angle. 

We  called  for  some  beer :  the  Professor  threw  off  his  coat,  and 
took  up  one  of  the  large  balls.  He  kept  his  long  legs  rather 
apart,  balancing  himself;  and  then,  without  moving  a  foot,  he 
lowered  his  right  arm,  and  with  a  rapid  sweep  sent  the  ball  spin- 
ning up  the  alley.  There  was  a  rumble  and  a  crash,  and  the 
whole  nine  pins  were  lying  in  a  confused  heap. 

"  Silber  pays  for  the  beer,"  remarked  Franz,  with  a  laugh. 

And  so  it  turned  out.  The  Professor  had  not  forgotten  his 
skill  since  his  student  days ;  and  Silber  had  but  a  poor  chance 
against  that  powerful  arm,  the  lithe  and  supple  frame,  and  dark, 
sure  eye.  It  is  needless  to  say  that  Franz  accompanied  the  per- 
formance with  some  music  ;  and  the  landlord,  who  had  come  with 
the  beer,  hung  about  and  stared  at  the  musician,  as  the  latter  "  made 
the  zither  speak." 

We  lingered  some  little  while  in  this  beautiful  valley,  making 
such  sketches  and  studies  as  were  thought  desirable.  Then  on 
again,  with  Franz  singing  his  doggerel  verse — 

"Ich  bin  (ler  Graf  von  Freischiitz, 
Der  so  gein  hinter  'm  Ofen  sitzt, 
Der  Tag  und  Naclit  marschirt, 
Hunger  leidet  und  halb  veifriert." 

We  left  the  course  of  the  young  Danube  and  drew  southward 
towards  the  infancy  of  the  mightier  Rhine,  entering  upon  that 
wide  plain  which,  between  Engen  and  Singen,  is  studded  with 
huge  volcanic  peaks,  rising  abruptly  from  the  level  soil.  How 
did  the  old  nobles  build  their  spacious  strongholds  on  the  sum- 
mit of  these  perpendicular  peaks — the  splendid  Hohenhowen, 
Hohentwiel,  Hohenstaffeln,  Hohenkrahen  ?  Did  the  peasantry 
fly  away  from  the  neighborhood  in  which  such  a  whim  had  over- 
taken their  lord,  or  did  they  meekly  submit  to  it,  and  spend  their 
toilsome  days  in  dragging  huge  blocks  of  masonry  up  the  sharp 
and  rugged  cones  ?  At  all  events,  the  ruins  of  the  castles  still 
stand  there,  miracles  of  human  labor  and  perseverance,  far  sur- 
passing those  on  the  Rhine.  And  all  the  country  about  seemed 
still  and  quiet  around  these  memorials  of  ancient  power.  The 
fields  that  stretched  for  miles  around  the  foot  of  the  isolated  peaks 
were  as  silent  as  the  great  Raubvogel  that  spread  its  wings  and 


238  KILMENY. 

hung  motionless  in  the  air,  spying  for  some  fluttering  bird  or 
creeping  thing  in  the  valley  beneath.  But  here,  also,  there  was 
peace  and  comfort ;  and  we  had  a  good  laugh  over  the  sorrows  of 
the  only  man  we  found  in  the  district  who  seemed  to  complain. 

This  was  a  stone-breaker — an  old  man,  with  bleared,  wistful 
eyes,  that  had  a  strange,  innocent  look  of  surprise  in  them.  I  can- 
not express  in  words  the  feeling  which  this  old  man's  look  gave 
one ;  but  it  seemed  somehow  the  half-frightened,  half-pitiful 
glance  of  a  boy  that  was  busy  with  some  appointed  task,  and 
raised  his  head  apprehensi\ely  as  his  master  approached.  There 
was  something  \ery  touching  in  this  queer  look,  which  appeared 
to  say  that  the  man  had  been  doing  his  best  all  his  life,  and 
hoped  he  was  doing  right. 

Of  course,  Franz  began  to  talk  to  him;  and  we,  who  could  only 
gather  odd  words  and  sentences,  understood  enough  to  see  that 
the  man's  whole  life  and  interest  were  confined  to  his  occupation. 
He  spoke  of  the  different  kinds  of  stones  as  if  they  were  sly  fel- 
lows who  had  to  be  cunningly  treated ;  and,  as  he  spoke  about  a 
very  good  kind  of  stone,  there  was  a  half-comical  grin  on  his  face, 
as  if  he  had  said — 

"  We  can  get  on  very  well  with  that  merry  little  devil  of  a 
stone.  He  is  easy  to  break ;  he  lies  well  on  the  roads.  Ah  !  he 
is  a  good  helper  to  us,  that  funny  little  stone." 

Then  his  face  fell  again,  and  he  turned  to  his  work,  and  said, 
with  a  sigh — 

"  D'  Welt  word  alle  Tag  schleachter — s'  ist  en  bose  Zit  fur  us 
arme  Liit,  dia  so  alt  sind." 

And  then  he  murmured  something  about  liis  poor  pay  and  his 
struggle  with  the  world,  lint  it  turned  out  that  he  made  a  florin 
a  day ;  and  Franz  was  immensely  tickled  by  the  affected  sorrows 
of  a  stone-breaker  who  could  make  only  IOa-.  a  week  ;  some  of  my 
readers  may  fancy  tliat  a  poor  wage  for  a  working-man ;  but  con- 
sider that,  whereas  in  England  the  working-man's  beer  costs  him 
fivepence  a  quart,  in  Germany  it  costs  a  penny ;  that  a  penny  in 
Germany  will  get  a  pound  of  bread,  for  which  in  England  he 
pays  twopence ;  and  that  most  articles  required  by  the  working- 
man  are  to  be  got  in  the  latter  proportion.  Why,  the  people  wlio 
(;hop  wood  in  the  by-streets  of  Munich  can  make  a  florin  and  a 
half  per  day,  or  \5s.  a  week. 

It  was  towards  <lnsk  mi  a  htvclv  cvciiin"'  that  we  drew  near  to 


DAS    WANDERLEBEN.  239 

Constance,  and  the  long  lake  shone  a  light  crimson  under  the 
sunset.  Far  down  in  the  southeast  a  cold,  blue  mist  had  gathered 
along  its  shores  and  under  the  great,  purple  masses  of  the  Tyrol- 
ese  Alps,  that  seemed  to  encircle  the  horizon ;  but  here  at  hand, 
under  the  white  town,  the  still,  clear  waters  lay  with  scarcely  a 
ripple  on  their  surface  to  break  the  splendid  glow  of  color.  Over- 
head the  last  flush  of  the  sunset  struck  along  the  golden  bars  of 
cloud  and  then  died  out  in  the  pale  green  of  the  east ;  while  the 
distant  mountains  had  a  touch  of  red  along  their  peaks,  where 
the  great  shoulders  rose  out  of  the  pale  mist.  So  still  was  the 
lake !  And  as  the  evening  deepened,  the  keen  colors  faded  out, 
and  the  white  mist  came  up  and  lay  all  over  the  breadth  of  the 
water ;  while  the  orange  lights  of  Constance  began  to  twinkle  in 
the  dusk,  and  a  small  steamer  in  the  harbor  ran  up  its  colored 
lamps. 

We  had  letters  awaiting  us.  A  long  epistle  from  Heatherleigh 
I  shall  give  presently  ;  but  I  may  insert  here  the  brief  note  which 
Lena  Kunzen  sent  her  lover.  Franz  was  deeply  disgusted  by  it, 
as  he  had  been  expecting  a  tender  and  affectionate  letter.  He 
showed  it  to  me,  with  a  rueful   countenance.     It  ran   in   this 

fashion : 

"MiJNCHEN,  Tuesday. 

"  Fraulein  Annele  von  Tharau  presents  her  compliments  to 
Herr  Franz,  and  hopes  he  is  a  good  boy.  She  is  quite  well,  and 
in  good  spirits ;  was  out  for  a  walk  in  the  Englischer  Garten  this 
morning,  and  accidentally  ran  against  a  little  Scotchman,  who  was 
dressed  in  the  peculiar  costume  of  his  country.  The  little  Scotch- 
man tumbled  and  cried.  The  Frau  Mlitterlein  was  for  cuffing 
Annele  ;  but  she  was  saved  from  that  indignity.  Hopes  the  Herr 
Papa  is  well.  Will  be  glad  to  hear  from  the  honorable  company 
of  travellers,  and  thinks  that  a  hat  such  as  is  worn  by  the  young 
ladies  of  Innsbruck  might  become  Fraulein  Lena  well,  and  be  a 
pretty  present,  if  Herr  Franz  is  also  of  that  opinion.  Fraulein 
Annele  commends  herself." 

*'  She  is  a  little  devil  of  a  girl,"  said  Franz,  disconsolately. 


240  KILMENY. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

FATHER    AND    SON. 

"  My  dear  Ted,  it  is  to  you  alone  that  I  can  write  fully  of  all 
tliat  has  befallen  me  during  the  past  few  days.  If  we  could  only 
go  out  now,  in  the  dusk  of  the  evening,  and  have  one  of  our  old 
saunters  around  the  Serpentine,  with  the  yellow  lamps  burning  in 
the  gray,  and  courting  couples  regarding  warily  our  approach  ! 
But  then  it  rains  at  present,  and  you — you  lucky  dog — are  down 
m  the  clear  South,  where  night  is  like  day,  and  the  stars,  I  dare 
be  sworn,  are  shining  over  the  Bodensee.     Hang  you  ! 

"  A  week  ago  I  got  a  letter  from  home.  It  was  tlie  first  time 
that  I  had  seen  my  father's  handwriting  or  the  familiar  crest  for 
many  years. 

" '  Come,'  said  I  to  myself,  '  are  we  all  about  to  become  sensi- 
ble, and  is  the  world  getting  to  an  end  ?' 

"  You  remember  that  I  told  you  how  I  parted  from  my  familv 
when  I  was  young.  The  cause  of  that  parting  I  cannot  help  feel- 
ing as  bitterly  now  as  then  ;  and  yet,  wliat  is  the  use  of  it?  What 
is  the  use  of  keeping  up  old  grudges?  But  there  are  some  things 
a  man  cannot  forget. 

"  Pride  helped  to  widen  the  breacli.  It  is  a  fault  that  runs  in 
our  family,  and  a  good  deal  of  it  has  run  my  way.  There  is  only 
one  person  I  know  who,  in  tliat  direction,  is  a  bigger  fool  tlian 
myself ;  and  that's  you.  However,  to  cut  the  matter  short,  my 
father  told  me  that  he  was  coming  up  to  town  in  a  day  or  two, 
and  would  call  upon  me.      I  was  surprised,  but  contented. 

"Jlc  came  up  one  forenoon,  looking  just  as  he  used  to  look, 
but  a  tritie  grayer.  He  was  stitf  and  cold  in  his  manner,  as  though 
he  would  have  it  known  that  lie  had  not  come  as  a  suppliant.  He 
hooked  with  some  contempt  around  my  studio,  and  then  fixed  his 
eyes  on  the  table,  where  some  beer  and  tobacco  stood. 

"  '  Will  you  put  that  pipe  and  the  ashes  away  ?  The  smell  is 
abominable.' 

"  I  carried  them  into  >iiy  bedroom,  and  put  them  on  the  man- 


FATHER    AND    SON.  i541 

tel-piece.  Then  I  returned.  It  was  an  affecting  meeting  between 
a  father  and  son  who  had  not  seen  each  other  for  something  Uke 
nine  years,  was  it  not?  And  yet,  I  declare  to  you,  Ted,  there 
seemed  to  hover  between  me  and  him  an  almost  invisible  shape, 
tender  and  delicate  and  beautiful ;  and  I  felt  all  the  bitterness  of 
the  old  irreparable  wrong  rising  within  me.  Call  me  what  you 
like — unnatural,  insensate :  there  the  feeling  was,  and  how  could 
I  make  believe  to  be  friendly  ?  At  the  very  moment,  too,  I  knew 
that  my  darling  in  heaven,  if  she  could  have  interposed  between 
us,  would  have  besought  our  reconciliation.  I  felt  that  also. 
But  when  a  man's  wife  has  been  insulted,  does  the  husband  care 
for  the  pleading  of  the  frightened  face  that  would  fain  come 
between  ? 

" '  I  am  sorry  to  see  you  in  such  a  place,'  he  said,  looking 
around. 

"  '  I  am  very  comfortable,'  said  I. 

"  He  sat  down. 

"  '  This  unhappy  estrangement  has  lasted  long  enough  between 
us.' 

"  '  I  think  it  has,  sir.' 

"  '  I  am  glad  you  think  so.  You  have  doubtless  seen  more  of 
the  world  since  you  took  that  step  which — which — " 

"  '  Which  I  don't  regret  having  taken,'  said  I. 

"  '  Let  us  talk  sensibly.  Let  us  understand  each  other,'  he  con- 
tinued. '  There  is  no  use  in  recalling  what  is  over  and  gone. 
There  were — hem  ! — faults  on  both  sides,  I  dare  say.  You  must 
see  now  that  it  would  have  been  most  imprudent  of  you  to  have 
married — ' 

"  '  I  thought  we  were  to  forget  those  things,  for  form's  sake,' 
I  said,  feeling  my  cheek  flush.  '  But  since  you  have  recalled 
them,  let  me  tell  you  that  I  shall  never  forget  them — that  the 
more  I  see  of  the  world,  the  more  despicable  and  cowardly  seems 
the  conduct  of  you  and  yours  to  that  poor  girl.  Do  you  fancy  I 
did  not  marry  her  because  of  the  underhand  ways  you  took  to 
prevent  the  marriage  ?  God  knows  it  was  for  a  far  different  rea- 
son ;  but  not  the  less  do  I  remember  what  you  tried  to  do  at  that 
time,  and  the  memory  of  it  has  gone  on  bearing  heavy  interest 
ever  since.' 

**  I  am  soiTy  I  said  this,  Ted.  For  what  was  the  use  of  saying 
it  ?     I  should  have  let  the  thing  go ;  and  then  my  father  might 

L 


242  KILMENY. 

have  had  the  satisfaction  of  thinking  that  he  and  I  were  Ukely  to 
get  back  to  our  old  terms.  But  you  who  know  me,  know  that 
that  is  impossible  in  this  world.  I  hope  I  do  not  bear  my  father 
any  ill-will.  I  should  like  to  do  anything  in  my  power  to  please 
him.  But  there  is  no  man  living  whom  I  am  so  anxious  to 
avoid. 

"  '  Confound  it,'  he  said,  '  let  all  that  alone.  Let  us  talk  sensi- 
bly, like  two  men  of  the  world.  You  are  no  longer  a  boy.  You 
know  the  advantages  of  a  good  name,  of  a  position,  money,  and 
its  comforts.  I  am  willing  to  make  a  bargain  with  you — to  let 
by-gones  be  by-gones,  and  that  you  should  come  back  home  again, 
and  take  up  your  proper  place  in  the  house.' 

"  For  a  moment  I  thought  with  an  involuntary  shudder  of  hav- 
ing to  meet  this  man's  face  every  day — recalling  another  face! 
Then  I  reflected  that,  after  all,  I  was  his  son,  and  owed  him  a  cer- 
tain duty. 

'"Very  well,  sir,'  I  said;  'I  have  no  objection  to  go  and  live 
in  your  house.  Of  course,  I  have  my  profession,  which  I  should 
like  to  follow — ' 

"  '  As  an  amusement,'  he  interposed,  hastily. 

"  '  Very  well,'  said  I ;  '  I  am  not  artist-mad,  as  I  used  to  be.' 

"Even  as  I  gave  in  this  half-adhesion  to  his  proposal,  a  start- 
ling thought  suggested  itself — What  if  1  should  only  go  home  to 
be  again  placed  in  an  attitude  of  antagonism  to  all  my  relatives  ? 
Did  my  father  think  of  this  at  the  same  moment? 

"  'There  is  another  subject  I  want  to  drop  you  a  hint  about, 
that  may  make  your  return  to  us  more  attractive.  Of  course  you 
must  marry  some  day  or  other.  Now  it  has  occurred  to  us  that 
there  is  a  certain  young  lady,  a  neighbor  of  ours,  who  would 
prove  a  suitable  wife — that  is,  of  course,  of  course,  if  you  were 
to  become  fond  of  each  other.  God  forbid  there  should  be  any 
money-marriage  between  you,  without  affection.  I  am  prt)ud  to 
say  that  our  family  does  not  need  that  method  of  increasing  its 
fortune  ;  it  can  stand  by  itself.  But  at  the  same  time,  the  young 
lady  is  y<ning,  not  bad-looking,  and  they  say  she  has  never  even 
thought  of  anybody,  while  the  junction  of  the  Whitby  lands  with 
ours — ' 

"♦Oh,  you  mean  Miss  Whitby?' 

"  *  Exactly.     I  hope  you  have  nothing  to  say  against  the  girl  V 

"  '  Nothing.     On  the  contrary,  she  was  a  charming  creature,  in 


FATHER    AND    SON.  243 

pinafores,  when  I  last  had  the  pleasure  of  her  acquaintance.  And 
so  you  make  my  marrying  Miss  Whitby  the  condition  of  my 
returning  home  V 

"  '  How  can  you  dream  of  such  a  thing  ?"  he  said,  earnestly 
enough.  '  You  do  not  know  that  the  match  would  be  agreeable 
to  the  young  lady.  No.  I  merely  suggested  it  as  a  very  desir- 
able thing;  and  I  don't  see  what  is  to  interfere  with  such  an 
arrangement.  The  girl  is  a  most  amiable  girl,  according  to  all 
accounts ;  and  the  marriage  would  be  a  most  sensible  one.  My 
dear  boy,  you  are  now  well  up  in  years — ' 

"  '  Yes,  sir ;  and  I  have  acquired  very  fixed  notions  as  to  what 
it  is  worth  one's  while  to  live  for.  Oddly  enough,  these  notions, 
that  have  been  growing  upon  me,  are  rather  romantic.  I  was 
much  more  prosaic  at  twenty.  Then  I  had  a  profound  admiration 
for  great  wealth,  and  had  a  curious  sort  of  belief  that  if  I  could 
get  vast  sums  of  money,  I  should  be  able  to  drink  proportionately 
large  quantities  of  champagne,  and  so  forth,  and  so  forth.  I  have 
no  longer  any  ambition  that  way,  I  should  like  to  have  a  lot  of 
money,  on  account  of  the  security  it  gives  one  in  accepting  cer- 
tain responsibilities  ;  but  I  have  grown  sceptical  about  its  supreme 
power.  The  older  I  get,  the  more  x'omantic  I  get,  and  the  more 
absurd  become  my  notions  of  what  it  is  that  is  alone  of  value  in 
life.  Now,  if  you  were  to  oflEer  me  the  marquisate  of  Westmin- 
ster on  condition  of  my  marrying  Miss  Whitby,  I  should  iind  no 
difficulty  in  saying  No.' 

"  '  What  do  you  mean  ?  Have  you  anything  to  say  against  the 
girl?' 

"  '  Nothing.  But  I  shall  prevent  your  wasting  more  time  by 
telling  you  how  the  case  stands.  A  good  many  years  ago  you 
practically  turned  me  out  of  your  house  because  I  wanted  to  mar- 
ry a  girl  who  was  poor.  If  I  went  back  with  you  now,  I  might 
very  soon  find  myself  in  the  same  position  again — ' 

"  '  Be  reasonable  !'  cried  my  father.  '  Or  are  you  saying  that 
out  of  revenge  ?' 

"  '  Certainly  not,'  I  answered.  '  During  these  few  years  I  have 
grown  so  accustomed  to  my  independent  ways  and  narrow  means 
that  I  had  forgotten  any  wish  to  find  myself  in  another  condition. 
I  was — I  am — quite  content,  and  quite  ready  to  abide  as  I  am. 
It  may  be  those  books  you  used  to  dislike,  or  it  may  be  my  own 
stupidity ;  but  I  am  quite  content.     I  have  also  thought  of  mar- 


244  KlLMENY. 

rying ;  and,  if  I  marry,  I  shall  marry  a  girl  who  is  even  poorei 
than  myself.' 

"  '  Good  God  !  are  you  mad  V  exclaimed  my  father. 

"  '  I  hope  not.  I  have  not  asked  her  to  marry  me — she  may 
want  to  marry  somebody  else,  for  aught  I  know.  She  is  an  hon- 
est woman  ;  she  has  a  bright,  affectionate,  amiable  nature — just 
the  sort  of  nature  to  sweeten  a  poor  man's  life  and  make  it  pleasant 
to  him  ;  and  she  is  a  good  deal  prettier  than  Miss  Whitby,  I  dare 
say,  though  that  is  not  of  so  much  consequence  to  a  middle-aged 
man.  If  she  will  marry  me,  I  shall  look  forward  with  confidence 
to  having  a  pleasant  and  intelligent  companion — one  who  has 
known  poverty,  and  can  brave  it — one  who  is  not  afraid  of  the 
chances  of  life — in  short,  a  good,  pure,  honest,  affectionate  girl, 
with  not  a  taint  of  fashionable  ways  or  self-regarding  notions 
about  her,' 

"  '  But  who  is  slie  ? — what  is  she  ?' 

"  '  Well,  sir,  she  is  at  present  a  model.' 

"  I  confess  to  you,  Ted,  that  1  had  been  looking  forward  to  the 
surprise  of  this  declaration  as  a  good  joke  (are  you  surprised,  too, 
old  man  ?),  and  was  inclined  to  be  highly  anmsed  by  my  father's 
consternation.  But  it  suddenly  occurred  to  me  that  in  his  resent- 
ment he  might  say  something  about  her  that  I  should  have  to  re- 
member forever ;  and  so  I  liastily  added — 

"  '  Don't  be  alarmed,  sir.  Nothing  may  come  of  it.  In  the 
first  place,  I  shall  not  marry  until  I  have  enough  money  to  make 
a  small  provision  for  my  wife.  I  have  already  saved  up  £800 — 
I  heard  that  you  sunk  more  than  that  on  the  north  farm  last  year 
— and  I  am  working  hard  to  increase  the  amount.  It  is  only,  as 
yet,  a  dream  of  mine — a  fancy  that  I  like  to  speculate  upon  ;  and 
it  has  at  least  added  a  good  deal  of  interest  to  my  ivork.' 

"  '  And  so,'  continued  my  father,  slowly,  '  you  actually  con- 
template marrying  a  model — a  woman — ' 

"  '  Pardon  me,  sir,'  I  broke  in,  '  but  if  you  will  reflect  that  you 
are  talking  about  Iht  who  mai/  be  my  wife,  you  will  see  that  it 
iiiiglit  be  as  well  to  say  nothing  hastily.  Like  most  outsiders, 
you  may  have  mistaken  notions  about  models — I  don't  know  ; 
but,  at  all  events,  it  is  premature  to  trouble  yourself  about  the 
matter.  I  supj)ose,  too,  there  won't  be  much  use,  in  the  face  of 
such  a  possibility,  in  our  talking  further  about  that  arrangement 
you  proposed?' 


FATHER    AND    SON.  245 

"  With  that  he  broke  forth  suddenly — 

"  '  What  ?  Do  you  think,  sir,  I  shall  let  you  bring  a  shameless 
woman  into  my  house — a  woman  who  allows  herself  to — ' 

"  '  Stop  !'  I  said.  '  We  are  no  longer  father  and  son,  but  two 
men.  You  turned  me  out  of  your  house  :  shall  I  turn  you  out  of 
mine  ?  By  heavens !  if  you  utter  another  word  against  that  girl, 
you  shall  have  to  choose  between  the  stair  and  the  window  !' 

"  The  old  story,  Ted — the  old  story — hasl^y  words  and  angry 
passions,  to  be  remembered  and  regretted  for  many  a  day.  But 
who  should  appear  in  the  room  at  this  moment  but  Polly  herself. 
She  did  not  come  in.  She  stood  at  the  open  door,  her  hand  on 
the  handle,  her  face  white  as  death.  We  had  been  speaking  suf- 
ficiently loud ;  she  had  heard  everything  as  she  came  up  the 
stairs.  What  her  most  unexpected  errand  had  been,  I  cannot  tell ; 
but  the  coincidence  was  terrible. 

"  Look  back  over  the  minute  account  I  have  written.  You  will 
see  that  her  name  was  never  mentioned.  But  in  the  sharp  crisis 
neither  she  nor  I  remembered  that :  we  both  took  everything  for 
granted.     I  went  forward  to  her,  and  said,  firmly — 

"  '  Come  in,  Polly.     It  is  better  you  should  hear  this  out.' 

"  There  was  that  wild,  pitiful,  scared  look  on  her  face  that  she 
wore  the  evening  she  heard  her  drunken  mother's  ravings.  I  was 
overwhelmed  with  pity  for  her,  and  also  with  that  ghastly  con- 
sciousness of  powerlessness  to  retrieve  what  is  past  redemption 
that  crushes  a  man  sometimes. 

" '  I  have  heard  quite  enough,'  she  said,  with  a  strange  calm- 
ness ;  '  and  I  came  in  to  let  you  know  that  I  heard  it.' 

"  '  It  is  the  second  time  you  have  been  insulted  in  this  room,'  I 
said,  '  and,  please  Heaven,  it  shall  be  the  last.  The  first  time  it 
was  your  mother ;  now  it  is  my  father.  We  have  got  rid  of  the 
one;  now  let  us  settle  with  the  other,  and  put  the  matter  beyond 
interference.  It  is  rather  odd  that  people  should  have  to  talk 
so  of  their  parents,  isn't  it?  But  it  happens  sometimes.  And 
so—' 

"  *  And  so,'  said  my  father,  *  this  is  the  young  lady  you  mean 
to  marry.  I  am  sorry,  miss,  that  you  heard  what  was  said ;  but 
—but—' 

'"But  it  was  better  I  should,'  said  Polly,  quite  calmly;  'be- 
cause, you  see,  I  can  remove  this  misunderstanding  between  you. 
1  do  not  know  what  you  want  your  son  to  do ;  but  I  beg  you  to 


246  KILMENY. 

believe  that  I  shall  be  no  hindrance  to  it,  for  I  will  never  be  his 
wife.' 

"  Then  she  went  to  the  door,  pale  and  self-possessed.  I  thought 
of  stopping  her;  but  what  would  have  been  the  good?  My  father 
and  I  were  left  alone. 

"  '  Well,  sir,  are  you  satisfied  V  he  asked,  coldly. 

" '  I  shall  be  when  you  leave  the  house,'  I  answered. 

" '  Then  you  still  persist  in  your  determination  to  marry  a  girl 
whose  profession  must  at  least  put  her  under  the  ban  of  sus- 
picion ?' 

"  But  the  thought  of  the  poor  girl  going  out,  with  that  burn- 
ing sense  of  shame  around  her,  into  the  lonely  streets,  recalled  me 
to  my  senses.  I  snatched  a  cap,  left  my  father  standing  there, 
and  hurried  after  her. 

"  The  arrangement  you  made  when  you  left  has  proved  a  com- 
fortable one ;  she  has  been  living  ever  since  with  your  mother ; 
and  the  two  seemed  very  fond  of  each  other.  Of  course,  I  could 
not  go  up  there  so  often  as  I  did  when  you  were  at  home ;  but  I 
visited  the  small  household  occasionally,  and  each  time  had  an- 
other opportunity  of  noticing  Polly's  obedient  and  daughter-like 
ways,  and  your  mother's  affection  for  her.  I  guessed  that  she 
would  go  straight  there  on  leaving  Grajiby  Street ;  and  I  hasten- 
ed around  to  your  house  by  the  route  I  fancied  she  would  take. 
I  saw  nothing  of  her  on  the  way.  When  I  got  to  the  house  T 
asked  for  your  mother ;  and  I  was  shown  up  to  the  parlor,  which 
was  empty.  In  a  little  while  your  mother  came  into  the  room, 
and  I  could  see  by  the  expression  of  her  face  that  she  knew  every- 
thing, and  that  she  was  much  vexed  and  disturbed. 

"  '  Polly  has  told  you,'  I  said. 

"  *  Yes,'  she  answered ;  '  you  cannot  fancy  how  bitterly  your 
father's  words  have  wounded  her.  You  know  how  she  has  been 
schooling  herself — learning  things — and  taking  every  opportunity 
of  self-improvement.  Whether  she  had  any  purpose  in  all  this  is 
more  than  I  can  say  ;  but  now  she  is  cast  down  utterly,  and  wound- 
ed far  more  deeply  than  you  can  imagine.  I  have  appealed  to  her 
self-respect ;  but  she  has  been  sd  deeply  Ininiiliated  that  she  is 
quite  prostrated.  There  is  another  thing,  also.  She  blames  her- 
self for  having  opened  the  door,  and  she  is  covere<l  with  shainc; 
to  think  that  she  should  have  taken  it  for  granted  that  you  and 
your  father  were  speaking  of  her.' 


FATHER  AND  SON.  247 

" '  But  we  were  speaking  of  her :  and  s\ie  must  have  known  it. 
What  is  to  be  done  to  relieve  the  poor  girl's  sufferings  ?  I  know 
how  sensitive  she  is ;  and  how  she  must  feel  all  this  vexing  non- 
sense.    Tell  her  I  wish  to  see  her,  only  for  a  minute.' 

"  *  If  you  were  to  see  her  now,  in  her  present  mood,  you  would 
make  the  thing  irrevocable,'  said  your  mother.  '  It  may  be  so  as 
it  is.' 

"  *  What  do  you  mean  V 

" '  I  know  Polly  very  well — better  than  you  do.  Under  hef 
happy  and  good-natured  ways  there  lies  a  firm  will ;  and  if  she 
were  to  resolve  at  this  moment  that  she  will  never  see  you  again, 
she  would  keep  her  word.  Be  advised :  leave  her  to  herself.  I 
will  do  what  I  can  to  help  you — that  is,  if  you  think  you  will  be 
happier  in  marrying  her  than  in  becoming  a  rich  man.' 

"  Your  mother  said  this  with  a  peculiar  smile,  Ted,  that  made 
her  face  look  lovely,  and  yet  a  trifle  sad.  Does  she  know  that 
you  told  me  her  story  ? 

"  '  If  you  marry  her,'  she  added,  gravely  and  kindly,  '  you  will 
get  a  true  wife,  tender-hearted  and  honest,  whom  you  will  be  al- 
ways able  to  trust,  who  will  be  the  same  to  you  in  good  or  in  bad 
circumstances.  And  you  will  get  a  wife  who  will  look  up  to  you, 
and  give  you  her  love  as  the  only  thing  she  can  offer  you.  I  must 
not  advise  you  to  do  it,  Mr.  Heatherleigh.  There  may  be  great 
inducements  on  the  other  side ;  and  there  are  people  who,  in  your 
position,  would  be  ruined  by  such  a  marriage.  But  you  are  no 
longer  a  very  young  man.  You  know  what  you  have  to  expect 
in  life.     You  must  make  your  choice.' 

"  '  My  choice  is  made — was  made  long  ago ;  and  I  shall  rely 
upon  your  aid,'  I  said,  very  gratefully. 

"  When  I  got  out  into  the  open  air,  Ted,  it  seemed  to  have 
been  all  a  mistake  or  a  dream.  I  asked  myself  if  it  was  possible 
that  people  should  permit  themselves  to  be  so  deeply  vexed — 
should,  perhaps,  alter  all  their  plans  in  life — in  consequence  of 
half-a-dozen  words.  Why,  all  the  circumstances  of  the  world 
were  just  as  they  were  an  hour  before.  London  had  got  a  little 
nearer  its  dinner-time,  that  was  all.  Yet  these  half-dozen  impal- 
pable words  had  knocked  our  lives  completely  off  their  ordinary 
axes ;  and  were  likely  to  interfere  with  the  future  in  a  very  re- 
markable fashion.  I  fancied  if  I  could  have  got  hold  of  Polly, 
and  shown  her  the  absurdity  of  vexing  herself  about  two  or  three 


248  KILMENY. 

insisfnificant  worrls,  resolvable  into  their  oriirinal  letters,  she  would 
have  been  willing  to  send  them  into  this  alphabetic  chaos,  and  pay 
them  no  further  attention.  These  words  had  altered  neither  her 
nor  me,  nor  anything:  why  heed  them?  They  had  not  even  al- 
tered to  the  extent  of  an  apple  the  stall  of  that  old  woman  at  the 
corner  to  whom  you  gave  the  live  shillings  when  you  sold  your 
picture.     Yet  with  women  words  are  powerful. 

•'  Nor  have  I  been  able  to  see  her  since.  She  was  to  have  given 
me  some  sittings  for  a  picture  I  have  just  begun,  yet  she  has  never 
made  her  appearance.  So  far  as  1  can  learn  she  has  sat  to  nobody 
since  that  unlucky  forenoon.  I  can't  get  a  glimpse  of  her.  1 
have  called  twice  to  see  your  mother ;  and,  on  both  occasions, 
PoUy,  who  was  in  the  house,  declined  coming  down, 

"  You  will  say  this  is  very  absurd,  and  so  it  is.  But  I  am  get- 
ting to  be  somewhat  uneasy,  especially  as  your  mother  looks 
rather  grave  over  the  matter.  She  says  Polly's  deep  hurt  is  far 
from  being  healed,  and  that  the  girl  says,  quite  calmly  and  fixed- 
ly, that,  whatever  my  resolutions  may  be  as  regards  my  father 
and  myself,  nothing  will  interfere  with  her  determination.  Your 
mother,  1  suppose,  has  been  pleading  my  cause,  and  Tolly  only 
replies — 

" '  I  have  still  some  self-respect  left.  It  is  not  necessary  that 
I  should  marry  anybody,  least  of  all  into  a  family  where  I  should 
be  despised.' 

"  If  she  would  only  let  me  see  her  for  a  few  minutes,  I  think  I 
could  reason  her  out  of  this  deplorable  resolution.  Where  is  my 
family,  I  should  like  to  know  ?  In  the  mean  while  the  perplexity 
of  the  position  harasses  me.  I  cannot  work,  and  I  cannot  remain 
idle  ;  I  cannot  even  read.  I  have  tried  to  cut  my  anxiety  to  j)ieces 
by  analysis,  but  I  have  no  sooner  got  to  the  end  of  some  chapter 
on  the  influence  of  the  mental  emotions  on  the  vital  functions, 
than  I  fling  the  confounded  book  aside,  and  wonder  whether  1 
sliall  ever  get  to  see  Polly.  Even  Marcus  Aurelins,  whom  I  used 
to  look  uj)on  as  a  charm  against  all  the  evils  of  life,  goads  me  into 
fury.  Many  a  time  have  1  lookeil  from  that  calm  and  lofty  ))in- 
nacle  of  pliilosophy,  whence  all  liuiuaii  ills  become  beautiful  ob- 
jects of  contemplation,  but  then  tlicy  were  the  ills  of  other  iieoi)le 
that  I  was  cf)nteiii|ilating.  'All  that  is  from  the  gods  is  full  of 
]>rovid<!ncc,'  says  the  emperor,  l>iil  it  may  also  be  full  of  pain 

"One  thing  1  have  resolvcil  npun.      if  ever  1  get  the  ehaiiee-,  I 


FATHER    AND    SON.  249 

shall  marry  Polly  out  of  hand,  ami  thereafter  there  will  be  no 
question  of  divided  interests.  Let  me  know  what  you  think  of 
the  whole  matter. 

"  I  have  selfishly  reserved  this  long  letter  for  my  own  affairs, 
and  I  can  only  add  a  line  to  say  with  what  anxiety  your  friends 
here  look  forward  to  your  next  work.  Tell  we  how  your  studies, 
so  far,  have  moulded  your  intentions.  Your  sympathies  are  wholly 
Northern,  I  think ; — I  shall  never  forget  your  scornful  and  unfair 
contrast  between  the  Nibelungenlied  and  the  writings  of  poor 
Chateaubriand.  You  are  always  unjust  to  France  and  the  French, 
while  your  strong  natural  bent  for  Northern  simplicity,  natural- 
ness, and  rough,  untrained  emotions  leads  you  to  overrate  what  is 
crude  in  art.  Munich,  however,  is  a  city  of  eclecticism,  and  you 
will  probably  have  your  sympathies  widened.  When  you  get 
back  to  Munich,  I  wish  you  would  send  me  a  minute  description 
of  whatever  of  Wohlgeinuth's  work  you  can  find.  I  am  curious, 
and  a  little  sceptical,  about  Diirer's  obligations  to  him. 

"  Farewell !     I  will  address  a  brief  note  to  you  at  Innsbruck." 

So  here  was  the  story  out  at  last.  I  was  not  much  surprised 
by  Heatherleigh's  announcement.  It  was  easy  to  guess  that  some- 
thing very  important  must  have  occurred  to  effect  such  a  com- 
plete change  in  his  notions  and  habits  as  he  had  recently  exhib- 
ited. The  Heatherleigh  of  this  later  period  was  very  unlike,  in 
many  things,  the  easy-going,  indolent  Heatherleigh  of  other  years, 
who  used  to  lounge  about  in  his  roughly  epicurean  fashion ;  at 
times  sharply  interrupting  his  Bohemian  life  by  fits  of  splendor 
and  extravagance.  It  was  easy  to  guess  that  Heatherleigh  meant 
to  do  something  with  the  money  which  he  was  now  so  industrious- 
ly hoarding ;  for  the  notion  of  Heatherleigh  hoarding  money  for 
his  own  use  or  satisfaction  was  too  preposterous  to  be  entertained 
for  a  moment. 

Nor  could  there  be  much  doubt  about  the  way  in  which  Polly 
would  otherwise  have  regarded  his  proposal.  I  fancied  she  had 
read  his  secret,  and  was  as  busily,  though  with  far  greater  shyness 
and  closeness,  preparing  for  the  marriage,  as  he  himself.  I  saw 
in  these  various  efforts  at  self-improvement  she  was  so  laboriously 
making,  so  many  honest  and  praiseworthy  efforts  to  make  herself 
more  worthy  of  the  man  whom  she  loved.  My  mother  took  care 
never  to  hint  anything  of  the  kind.     She  praised  Polly's  industry, 

L2 


250  KILMENV. 

and  to  us,  when  Polly  was  absent,  she  was  never  tired  of  eulogiz- 
ing the  girl's  sweetness  of  temper,  and  general  brightness  and 
cleverness. 

"  She  is  one  in  a  thousand,"  she  used  to  say.  "  Who  could 
have  expected  to  find  a  girl  brought  up  all  her  life  in  London  so 
winning  in  her  fearless,  simple  ways?  She  has  the  cleverness  of 
the  town,  and  the  natural  frankness  and  good-nature  of  the  coun- 
try, and  whoever  marries  her  will  marry  a  good,  honest  woman." 

It  did  seem  hard  that  these  two,  so  cunningly  pro{)aring  for  a 
long,  life  partnership — laying  in  stores,  as  it  were,  wherewith  to 
furnish  their  nest  when  the  happy  spring-time  came — should  thus 
be  separated.  But  I  knew  Polly's  extreme  sensitiveness,  and  her 
indomitable  firmness,  and  I  was  a  good  deal  less  surprised  than 
apprehensive  in  reading  Heatherleigh's  story  of  what  had  hap- 
pened. 

Her  position  was  by  far  the  more  painful  of  the  two.  I  could 
imagine  the  poor  girl  brooding  over  the  cruel  wound  that  had 
been  dealt  to  her  self-respect,  and  resolving  that  there  was  but 
one  way  in  which  she  could  clear  herself  in  her  own  eyes.  It 
was  a  cruel  method  of  repelling  an  unjust  accusation,  whichever 
way  she  resolved.  I  knew  that  she  must  be  suffering  with  all  the 
keenness  of  pain  that  accompanies  a  deeply  sensitive  nature  ;  and 
when  I  went  up-stairs  to  bed  that  night,  and  looked  out  and  saw, 
above  the  misty  waters  of  the  Constance  lake,  the  far  constella- 
tions of  the  northern  heavens,  I  fancied  those  cold  stars  were  shin- 
ing down  upon  the  huddled  darkness  of  London,  and  I  knew  that 
they  saw  few  more  unhappy  faces  there  than  the  pleasant  one  that 
Heatherleigh  loved. 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

THE    SONG    OF    WOLUNDUR. 


*'  You  sec,"  remarked  the  Professor,  "  it  is  our  only  German 
lake ;  and  therefore  we  are  very  proud  of  it.  And  is  it  not  a 
noble  lake  ?" 

He  might  well  say  so.  Wc  were  standing  on  a  little  height 
outside  th(!  town — tin;  liudilled  white  houses,  spires,  and  boats  of 


THE    SONG    OF    WOLUNDUR.  251 

Constance  on  our  right — and  there  before  us  lay  the  long  lake,  an 
intense  pale  blue,  so  clear  and  still  that  the  square-sailed  little 
boats,  which  caught  the  sunlight  on  their  yellow  canvas,  seemed 
to  hang  in  mid-air.  Out  into  this  blue  ran  wooded  promontories; 
the  green  bays  between,  with  their  occasional  villa,  being  faintly 
mirrored  in  the  smooth  water.  And  then,  far  beyond  the  jutting 
points  of  Romanshorn  and  Friedrichshafen,  overlooking  the  lake, 
and  yet  appearing  strangely  distant  in  the  white  haze  of  the  morn- 
ing sunlight,  the  grand  range  of  the  Vorarlberg  mountains,  with 
the  jagged  Kurfirsten  and  the  snow-flecked  Sentis  down  in  the 
south. 

We  remained  in  the  neighborhood  of  Constance  for  three  days, 
filling  our  portfolios  with  sketches.  Certainly  there  was  no  lack 
of  material ;  for  the  autumn  was  now  wearing  on,  and  the  mists 
that  hung  about  the  lake  and  the  mountains  in  the  morning,  or 
gathered  over  in  the  evening,  produced  a  constant  series  of  new 
effects.  Vogl  was  a  lover  of  mist.  He  used  to  describe  the 
strange  wliit<^  clouds  that  sometimes  hang  over  the  dark  firs  of 
the  Black  Forest,  even  when  the  morning  sunlight  is  lying  yellow 
on  the  valleys,  and  falling  here  and  there  into  the  wet  woods.  lie 
used  to  describe  the  wonderful  stillness  of  the  forest  under  this 
white  canopy,  that  just  touches  the  tops  of  the  dark  trees,  leaving 
a  sort  of  twilight  underneath,  where  the  air  is  moist  and  laden 
with  resinous  odors ;  how  you  go  in  among  the  moss  and  brack- 
ens that  are  heavy  with  dew,  expecting  at  every  footfall  to  startle 
a  wild-eyed  roe;  and  how  the  clouds  slowly  gather  themselves 
together  and  draw  upwards  to  the  hill -tops,  as  if  they  were 
covering  the  stealthy  flight  of  Diana,  when  she  has  left  Endym- 
ion,  "  pale  with  her  last  kiss,"  to  waken  in  the  cold  morning 
freshness. 

"  I  paid  Lena  out  for  her  impudence,"  said  Vogl  to  me  pri- 
vately, as  we  sailed  down  the  lake  to  Bregenz. 

"  How  ?" 

"  I  wrote  her  a  short  note  in  the  broadest  Black  Forest  dialect, 
and  she  will  puzzle  over  it  for  days.  It  is  even  worse  when  writ- 
ten than  when  spoken.  What  would  you  make  of  this,  for  exr 
ample  ?" 

He  put  a  bit  of  paper  on  his  zither-case,  resting  it  on  the  pad- 
dle-box, and  wrote — "  Ech  woas  es  nit,  wenn  i  ka  Zagarta  kuma, 
darno  will  der's  saga,  wegem  Schoppa  biatza,  i  kinnt  ietzt  cho 


252  KILMENY. 

kuma,  abcr  i  ba  nit  der  \yicl,  du  haschnior  au  scho  en  manga 
G'falle  than."* 

"  It  is  a  very  good  conundnini,"  I  said,  "  but  I  give  it  up. 
And  I  don't  envy  you  when  you  come  to  read  the  answer  that 
Lena  will  send  you." 

"  Nothing  keeps  Lena  a  quiet  and  good  little  girl  like  the  zith- 
er. So  soon  as  she  gets  away  from  the  charm  of  it,  she  is  wild, 
impudent,  untractable.  But  she  will  make  a  good  little  wife,  will 
Lenole,  when  we  grow  old  enough  to  marry." 

"  What  does  the  Herr  Professor  say  about  it  ?" 

"  He  does  not  care.  I  suppose  he  does  not  know  that  we  arc 
sweethearts.  Yet  he  knows  that  she  writes  to  me,  and  I  to  her ; 
and  that  we  go  out  together  always." 

"And  the  Frau  Mamma?" 

"  Oh,  she  is  a  good,  homely  woman.  She  has  friends  in  Walds- 
hut,  and  they  know  that  my  father  is  pretty  well  off.  The  Miit- 
terlein  will  make  no  objection." 

"  And  the  Fraulcin  Caroline  herself  ?" 

"  I  am  puzzled,"  said  Franz,  with  a  comic  look  of  bewilder- 
ment. "Lena  is  a  Will-o'-the-wisp.  I  can't  catch  her.  She  won't 
talk  seriously.  But  being  sweethearts  with  her  is  very  pleasant, 
and  if  she  won't  marry  mc,  I  can't  help  it.  If  she  marries  any- 
body else,  I  must  take  to  singing  all  the  heart-broken  songs;  but 
I  slia'n't  break  my  own  heart  for  all  that.  I  was  not  made  for 
it,  liebcr  Frcund,''''  he  added,  gayly  ;  "  love  affairs  will  never  in- 
terfere with  my  liking  for  '  Falscher  Vogel,'  stewed  apples,  and 
red  wine." 

"  Yet  you  could  support  the  character  of  the  heart-broken  lover 
so  well — you  could  fly  away  from  the  sound  of  the  mill-whcd 
and  become  a  minstrel,  and  wander  up  and  down  the  world,  sing 
ing  from  house  to  house." 

"  Ah,"  said  he,  "  when  I  hear  the  song  of  the  broken  ring,  1 
begin  to  fancy  there  is  some  truth  in  all  that  business  of  love  and 
despair." 

I  looked  at  the  zither-case;  I  knew  he  could  not  help  turning 
his  hand  to  it.    Only  speak  of  songs,  and  Franz  mechanically  be- 

*  Whicli,  in  ordinary  German,  wcmld  ho  snnielliiiifj;  like  tliis  :  "  Ich  weiss 
es  iiiclit,  weiiii  icli  aiif  Besnch  koinnicn  kiinii ;  (iaiiii  will  icli  dir's  sagcn, 
wegcii  ilcin  Kittcl  llicken.  Ich  konnlc  jetxt  sclion  koinmeii,  aher  ich  haho 
koine  Zeil  ;   <hi  Inisi  mir  auch  schon  niMiichcn  (ieCallcii  netlian." 


THE    SONG    OF    WOLUNDUR.  253 

gan  to  undo  the  leather  strap,  and  pull  out  the  zither,  and  touch 
the  strings.  This  time  he  played  the  pretty  Tyrolese  waltz  that 
Donizetti  has  introduced  into  "  La  Figlia  del  Reggimento,"  and 
then  the  music  somehow  led  him  into  the  old  Tyrolese  song  that 
I  have  already  mentioned — 

"  Herzig's  Schatzerl,  lass  dich  herzen, 
Ich  vergeh'  vor  Liebesschmerzen, 
Und  du  weisst  es  ja  zii  wohl 
Dass  ich  dich  ewig  lieben  soil!" 

He  sang  it  almost  to  himself;  and  the  simple  pathetic  melody 
was  mingled  with  the  sound  of  the  paddle-wheels,  as  we  churned 
our  way  through  the  blue  waters  down  to  Bregenz. 

All  during  this  beautiful  time  I  was  haunted  in  a  way  that  is 
scarcely  expressible  in  words  by  the  imagined  presence  of  Hester 
Burnham.  Quite  in  spite  of  myself,  I  kept  continually  picturing 
her  as  she  would  appear  if  some  miracle  were  to  bring  her  into 
the  same  boat  or  the  same  hotel.  Then  would  follow  lonof  imas;- 
inary  talks  with  her ;  and  visions  of  the  wonder  of  her  eyes  and 
the  delight  of  her  face  as  something  especially  beautiful  came  in 
our  way.  I  got  to  look  at  everything  just  as  if  she  were  by  my 
side ;  and  I  judged  of  it  as  she  would  be  likely  to  judge  of  it. 
Now,  when  I  look  back  upon  this  journey,  it  seems  as  if  the  whole 
of  it  were  imbued  with  her  presence.  I  cannot  think  of  that 
steamboat  on  the  lake  without  seeming  to  see  there  a  small  fig- 
ure, dressed  in  black,  with  a  certain  graceful  and  queenly  carriage 
about  it,  with  a  strange  honesty  and  tenderness  in  the  eyes,  and  a 
calm,  wistful  beauty  in  the  dark  clear  face.  Indeed,  so  deep-root- 
ed had  this  habit  become,  that  I  should  not  have  been  in  the  least 
surprised  had  I  in  reality  encountered  her.  So  far  as  the  influ- 
ence of  her  presence  was  concerned,  she  was  actually  there,  with 
me,  wherever  I  went.  I  began  to  forget  that  it  could  only  be  by 
a  sort  of  miracle  that  we  should  meet.  I  came  down-stairs  in  the 
morning,  half  expecting  to  liear  her  voice  at  the  breakfast-table ; 
and  then  I  used  to  feel  a  kind  of  accepted  disappointment  in  see- 
ing that  the  room  was  empty.  When  I  saw  at  any  distance  a 
girlish  figure  dressed  something  like  an  English  lady,  it  was  with 
a  secret  hope  that  I  drew  nearer.  Why  was  it  so  impossible  we 
should  meet  ?  Why  should  she  not  come  this  way  for  her  autumn 
tour  ;  and  then,  some  morning,  as  I  go  down  and  into  the  large 
bare  apartment,  with  its  long  table  and  rows  of  cups  and  napkins, 


254  KILMENY. 

lo  !  standing  at  the  window,  with  her  face  half-hidden  in  the  light, 
the  hidy  of  many  dreams  ? 

AVhat  shall  I  do  ?  Why,  yon  know,  we  are  in  Germany  now  ! 
England  and  its  coldness,  its  harsh  ways  and  cruel  thoughts,  are 
gone  from  us.  This  is  the  home  of  the  old  romances ;  and  the 
breath  of  this  land  tells  you  even  now  that  a  woman's  love  is 
something  better  than  money,  and  better  worth  striving  for.  I  go 
forward  to  her.  I  say,  "  Hester,  I  dared  not  tell  you  in  England 
that  I  loved  you :  here,  in  Germany,  I  must  tell  you.  Will  you 
give  me  your  love  in  return  for  mine  ?  Will  you  be  my  wife,  and 
let  us  go  away  together,  our  backs  upon  England,  into  the  green 
valleys  of  the  Tyrol?  W^e  are  free  here;  and  I  think  we  love 
each  other  very  dearly."  I  can  see  a  look  of  hea\  en  in  her  eyes. 
She  puts  her  hand  upon  mine,  light  as  the  touch  of  a  rose-leaf, 
and  says,  with  that  strange  smile  of  hers,  "We  do  love  each  oth- 
er:  why  should  we  not  always  be  together?" 

Ach,  Gott !  These  were  the  pictures  that  hovered  before  my 
eyes  during  all  this  journey.  Strange,  too,  that  in  these  day- 
dreams she  always  appeared  alone.  1  never  granted  for  a  mo- 
ment the  presence  of  any  one  else.  And  doubtless  the  small 
girlish  figure  seemed  rather  st)litary  at  this  time — the  only  mis- 
tress of  the  great  house  at  I>urnhain,  with  no  lu'iir  rt'lations,  with 
few  companions,  and  leading  all  by  herself  a  i^|uict  country  life, 
attending  to  her  duties,  with  apparently  no  wish  to  alter  the  cur- 
rent of  her  existence.  That  small  lady  was  a  striking  figure  to 
me;  and  the  great  woods  of  liurnham,  and  the  loneliness  of  the 
liurnham  valley,  made  her  individuality,  her  solitariness,  all  the 
more  vivid  and  distinct. 

My  constant  thought  was,  if  I  could  only  meet  her  here,  apart 
from  all  the  old  associations  that  separated  us  in  England,  1  would 
venture  everything  upon  one  elfort  to  win  lier.  DilTeiences  of 
social  position  may  be  something  in  the  west  of  London  ;  but  they 
are  nothing  in  front  of  the  lonely  mountains  of  the  Vorarlberg, 
or  even  at  the  common  breakfast-table  of  a  remote  Tyrolese  inn. 

Nor  wiis  there  any  bittcrnt'ss  in  tli<'  thought  that  these  dreams 
were  delusions.  In  England  they  would  have  been  very  bitter — 
the  aspirations  after  a  happiness  too  cliarly  impossible.  But  here 
in  Germany  1  had  grown  bold.  It  was  no  longer  impossible — 
this  beautiful,  though  distant  dream,  that  ringed  the  vague  future 
with  a  band  of  burnished  gold.     I  )ehisive,  d(iul)tl('ss,  in  the  mean 


THE    SONG    OF    WOLUNDUR.  255 

time ;  but  who  could  tell  what  the  coming  years  might  bring 
forth  ?  And  as  I  looked  forward  to  them  in  this  spirit — a  spirit 
that  had  grown  strong  and  hopeful  with  much  joyous  living — I 
was  not  curious  to  ask  which  of  the  pale  years  should  be  singled 
out  from  its  fellows  to  be  smitten  with  the  radiance  of  the  dawn. 
It  would  come  in  good  time ;  and  it  always  lay  ahead. 

That  evening  I  heard,  but  indirectly,  from  England,  the  Pro- 
fessor having  had  some  letters  forwarded  from  Munich,  among 
them  one  from  Mr.  Webb.  We  were  now  in  the  brisk  little  town 
of  Bregenz,  which  lies  at  the  southern  end  of  the  lake,  under  the 
shadow  of  the  rocky  and  wooded  hills  above ;  and  we  had  caught 
our  first  glimpse  of  the  picturesque  costume  of  the  Tyrol.  As 
we  walked  along  to  the  inn,  we  overtook  a  smart,  dark-faced  little 
woman,  who  was  slowly  driving  home  her  cows — those  beautiful 
little  animals,  with  large  mild  eyes,  and  pretty  dun-gray  hides, 
which  one  meets  everywhere  among  tlie  Tyrolese  valleys. 

"  What  sort  of  skin  is  that  hat  made  of  ?"  I  asked,  looking  at 
a  large  beehive-looking  thing  she  wore,  which  had  a  shining, 
deep-brown  color,  like  the  skin  of  a  bear. 

"  Shall  I  ask  her  ?"  said  Franz,  gayly. 

"  Yes." 

"  Fraulein,"  he  said,  going  up  to  her  and  gallantly  taking  off 
his  hat,  "  a  Mr.  Englishman  wants  to  know  what  sort  of  skin  your 
pretty  hat  is  made  of." 

The  little  woman  turned  upon  him,  sharp  as  a  needle. 

"Not  of  an  ass's  skin,  so  you've  no  concern  with  it,"  she  said, 
with  a  look  of  courageous  anger. 

Silber  burst  into  a  loud  guffaw  ;  but  Franz  was  not  much  taken 
aback. 

"  It  was  a  compliment,  Fraulein,  to  your  fine  wool ;  and  you 
shouldn't  be  so  snappish  with  strangers." 

"  You  shouldn't  be  so  ready  with  your  jokes,  Mr.  English- 
man." 

"Lieber  Himmel !  she  takes  me  for  an  Englishman!"  said 
Franz.  "Why?  I  haven't  offered  her  money  for  a  cup  of  wa- 
ter ;  nor  has  she  seen  me  laughing  at  the  costume  of  a  priest  or 
a  nun." 

But  the  small  Tyrolese  woman  went  away  in  high  dudgeon; 
and  doubtless  treasures  a  grudge  against  the  English  nation  until 
this  day. 


256  KILMENY. 

In  tlie  eveninn-,  afttT  dinner,  wlien  we  liad  gathered  around  the 
fire,  the  Pro'"ess<>r  pulled  Mr.  Webb's  letter  out  of  his  poeket,  and 
said  slyly — 

"Gentlemen,  it  is  always  good,  when  one  of  our  small  company 
earns  praises,  that  the  rest  should  know  it.  I  propose  to  translate 
into  German  for  you  a  letter  I  have  received  from  an  English  gen- 
tleman respecting  a  picture  that  has  been  done  by  one  of  us,  and 
that  has  made  a  stir  even  in  so  unimpressionable  a  country  as 
England." 

The  letter  was  about  "  Kilmeny,"  and  need  not  be  further 
noticed  here.  Neither  the  Professor  nor  my  fellow-students  had 
heard  of  this  picture ;  and  I  had  to  answer  many  questions  about 
it.  Franz  was  too  curious  about  the  lady  of  whom  Mr.  Webb  inci- 
dentally spoke,  as  having  suggested  the  face ;  and  there  was  noth- 
ing for  it  but  to  tell  Franz  to  be  less  curious.  So  he  only  nmr- 
mured  under  his  breath — 

"Die  Dame,  die  icli  liebe,  iienn'  ich  nicht," 

and  made  a  wry  face  at  Silber,  who  was  puffing  his  large  student's 
pipe,  and  thoughtfully  {)assing  his  fingers  through  liis  long  yellow 
hair. 

"  My  friend  in  England,"  continued  the  Professor,  "  sends  you 
very  good  wishes,  and  hopes  you  will  let  him  know  what  you 
mean  to  paint  next,  when  our  present  trip  is  over.  Have  you 
thought  of  a  subject?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Then  tell  us  about  it." 

"  With  [)leasure,  if  it  is  of  the  least  interest  to  you.  It  is  mere- 
ly the  story  of  Wolundur — the  VblaiidurkriJha.'''' 

"  My  remembrance  of  those  old  sagas  is  very  faint  iu)w,"  .said 
the  Professor.      "  Pray  tell  us  the  story." 

"Yes,"  said  Silber,  "tell  us  the  story  ahogether,  for  I  don't 
know  one  of  them." 

"Very  well,"  said  1  ;  "  but  I  cannot  vouch  for  the  accuracy  of 
my  memory." 

So  I  told  them  the  story  in  this  wise  : 

"  There  were  three  brothers,  sons  of  the  King  of  Finland,  named 
Slagfidr,  Egil,  and  Wolundur.  They  went  away  over  the  ice,  on 
a  Iniiiling  expedition,  and  they  came  to  Wolfsthal,  and  there  they 
built  houses.      Near  to -Wolfsthal  is  the  Wolfssee,  and  early  one 


THE    SONG    OF    WOLUNDUR.  25l 

morning  they  found  near  the  borders  of  the  lake  three  maidens, 
who  were  spinning  flax.  Two  were  the  daughters  of  King  Lod- 
wer;  but  the  third,  who  was  called  Alhwit  (All-white),  was  the 
daughter  of  Kiar  von  Walland.  The  three  brothers  took  the 
three  maidens  home  with  them  ;  Slagfidr  and  Egil  marrying  the 
king's  daughters,  while  the  maiden  Alhwit  became  the  wife  of 
Wolundur. 

"  Now  Wolundur  had  more  knowledge  of  all  the  arts  than  any 
other  man  ;  and  he  made  many  beautiful  gold  bracelets,  and  hung 
them  up  in  his  house.  But  after  they  had  spent  seven  winters 
together,  the  three  sisters  fled  away  '  in  search  of  their  fate ;'  and, 
while  Slagfidr  and  Egil  went  to  seek  their  wives,  Wolundur  re- 
mained at  home,  fashioning  his  cunning  bracelets  and  rings,  and 
waiting  for  his  young  wife  to  come  back  to  him. 

"  All  this  became  known  to  Nidudr,  the  King  of  Sweden  ;  and 
when  he  heard  that  Wolundur  lived  alone  in  the  Wolfsthal,  he 
took  some  men  with  him  and  went  there  by  night,  and  bound 
Wolundur  while  he  was  asleep,  and  stole  his  sword  and  a  beauti- 
ful gold  ring.  When  Wolundur  missed  the  ring,  he  thought  that 
Alhwit  had  taken  it  with  her.  The  sword  King  Nidudr  kept  to 
himself,  and  the  ring  he  gave  to  his  brown-lovely  (braunschone) 
daughter  Bodwild. 

"  But  the  queen  said,  '  When  he  sees  the  sword  and  the  ring, 
Wolundur's  mouth  will  water,  and  his  eyes  will  burn.' 

"  '  Wild  gliih'n  die  Angen 
Dem  gleissenden  Wurm.' 

*'  And  she  bade  her  husband  go  and  cut  the  sinews  of  the  hero's 
knees,  and  place  him  in  an  island,  so  that  he  might  not  wreak 
vengeance  upon  them.  And  this  was  done ;  and  the  king  put 
him  into  a  smithy,  where  he  was  kept  making  jewels  and  treas- 
ures for  the  royal  household.  Then  Wolundur  saw  that  the  king 
wore  the  sword  that  had  belonged  to  him,  and  he  saw  that  Bod- 
wild wore  the  red  gold  ring  of  his  beloved  Alhwit ;  and  he  swore 
to  be  revenged,  for  he  fancied  they  had  murdered  his  young 
wife. 

"  The  king's  sons,  two  boys,  came  playing  near  the  smithy,  and 
Wolundur  seized  upon  them,  and  hewed  their  heads  off.  Then 
the  maiden  Bodwild  came,  and  she  brought  the  red  ring  of  Wo- 
lundur's beloved  that  he  mitrht  mend  it.     Then  he  said  he  would 


258  KILMENY. 

mend  it,  and  the  king's  daughter  sat  down  in   a  chair,  and  he 
cunningly  gave  her  mead  to  drink,  so  that  she  slept. 

"  '  Wolil  mir,'  spiacli  Wulundur, 
'  War'  ich  auf  den  Selmen, 
Die  mir  Nidudurs 
Manner  nahmen.' 

"  Bodwild  went  home,  weeping  bitterly  over  the  fierce  wrong  that 
had  been  done  to  her;  but  Wolundur  went  into  the  open  air  and 
laughed  aloud.  And  the  king  came  to  him,  and  asked  where  were 
his  two  boys.  'Swear  to  me  first,'  says  Wolundur,  'that  you  have 
not  killed  my  bride.'  Wolundur  tells  the  king  that  he  lias  cut 
his  sons'  heads  off;  that  he  has  rimmed  the  skulls  with  silver  for 
a  present  to  the  king ;  that  he  has  changed  the  eyes  into  jewels 
for  the  false  wife  of  the  king;  that  he  has  made  of  the  teeth 
breast-jewels  for  the  king's  daughter.  But  the  heaviest  blow  of 
his  vengeance  is  to  come;  for  the  king  bids  them  bring  his 
brown-lovely,  ring-incrusted  daughter,  and  demands  of  her  if  she 
sat  an  hour  with  Wolundur  in  the  island.  And  Bodwild  answers 
very  sorrowfully — 

"  '  Wahr  ist  das,  Nidiidur, 
Was  man  dir  sa<>;te  : 
Ich  sass  mit  Wolundur 
Zusammen  im   Holm 
Hiitte  nie  sein  sollen!'" 

"  I  remember  the  story,"  said  the  Professor.  "  It  is  a  terrible 
one.     And  what  scene  do  you  propose  to  take?" 

"That  of  the  island  smithy,  with  the  maimed  hero,  dark  and 
revengeful,  looking  at  his  wife's  ring,  which  the  king's  daughter 
brings  to  him." 

"  It  is  a  grand  position,"  said  Franz ;  "  and  1  would  have  the 
king's  daughter  looking  young  and  beautiful,  and  innocent  i)f  the 
crime." 

"Then  people  will  ask  why  she  should  suffer  for  the  wickedness 
of  her  father  and  mother,"  said  Sillier. 

"  Let  them  ask !"  said  Franz.  "  We  don't  say  who  is  right 
and  who  is  wrong.  We  tell  the  story  of  old  and  hard  times,  in 
which  a  man's  family  was  a  part  of  his  wealth,  ami  you  robbed 
him  that  way  as  soon  as  any  other,  if  you  wanted  to  be  re- 
venged." 


THE    SONG    OF    WOLUNDUR.  259 

"  That  is  very  well  said — very  good,"  remarked  the  Professor. 
"  You  tell  the  story,  and  let  the  audience  sympathize  with  whom 
it  pleases.  The  most  prominent  figure  of  a  picture  or  a  drama  is 
not  necessarily  the  hero.  I  think  the  subject  is  a  good  one,  if 
treated  carefully.  But  it  must  be  neither  sentimental  nor  melo- 
dramatic. What  do  you  say,  Franz — shall  we  make  the  subject 
a  class-subject,  and  give  Herr  Edward  the  benefit  of  all  our  sug- 
gestions  ?" 

"  Capital !"  said  Franz.  *'  And  then,  after  we  have  done  what 
we  can  for  him  in  the  way  of  helping  the  composition,  we  must 
get  the  proper  models  for  him,  1  have  them  in  my  eye  just 
now." 

"  Who  are  they  ?" 

"  Why,  our  good  friend  Silber  will  stand  for  Wolundur,  and 
one  might  hope  to  gain  the  kind  assistance  of  Fraulein  Rie- 
del— " 

"  I  beg  ycu  will  not  mention  Fraulein  Riedel's  name,"  said  Sil- 
ber, with  a  sudden  and  angry  flush. 

"  No  offence,"  said  Franz,  with  a  provoking  calmness ;  "  I  was 
not  aware  you  were  so  much  interested  in  the  lady." 

"  I  am  not  interested." 

"  Who  is  the  Fraulein  Riedel  ?"  asked  the  Professor,  apparently 
to  smooth  the  matter  down. 

"  Herr  Professor,"  observed  Franz,  "  the  Fraulein  Riedel  is — a 
lady.  I  hope  one  may  be  pcnnitted  to  say  so,  even  in  the  pres- 
ence of  my  good  friend  Silber." 

The  Professor  laughed  heartily,  and  the  matter  dropped.  This 
fraulein  Riedel  was  a  young  lady  who  played  and  sang  in  the 
burlesques  and  operettas  of  the  Volkstheater  in  Munich — a  thea- 
tre which  the  Professor  was  not  likely  to  visit.  Silber  maintained 
hotly  that  many  a  worse  singer  and  actress  appeared  as  prima 
donna  in  the  Hoftheater ;  and  that  some  day  the  Fraulein  would 
sing  there  too. 

"  She  knows  the  whole  of  the  part  of  Rezia  in  '  Oberon,' "  he 
used  to  say  proudly ;  "  for  I  have  been  permitted  to  hear  her 
sing  it ;  and  I  doubt  not  she  is  equally  familiar  with  the  rest  of 
your  grand  operas.  But  I  believe  you  only  afifect  to  despise 
Offenbach,  because  he  is  new,  and  French." 

There  was  really  some  romance  in  connection  witli  this  affair. 
Silber  had  fallen  desperately  in  love  with  the  Fraulein  when  he 


260  KILMENY. 

first  saw  lior,  in  some  small  town  near  the  Rhine,  play  the  heroine 
of  our  English  farce  "  The  Rough  Diamond,"  which  Alexander 
Bergen  has  translated.  "  Ein  ungeschliffener  Diamant  "  was  too 
much  for  the  young  student,  who  never  forgot  "  Margaretha  von 
Immergrun's"  black  eyes  and  hair.  Three  years  passed,  and  he 
had  almost  forgotten  Fraulein  Riedel,  when  whom  should  he  see 
walking  along  the  Karlsplatz,  in  Munich,  but  the  same  girl  who 
had  struck  his  fancy  as  the  young  Baroness  von  Immergriin.  He 
followed  her — all  the  way  to  the  Volkstheater.  where  he  saw  her 
enter.  He  looked  at  the  bill — Fraulein  Riedel  was  announced  to 
appear  in  an  operetta  that  evening.  Silber  went,  and  renewed 
his  thrall.  By  and  by  he  managed  to  get  acquainted  with  her; 
and  he  was  beside  himself  with  joy  when  she  allowed  him  to 
present  lier  with  a  bracelet.  One  day  he  ventured  to  propose  a 
walk,  and  she  kindly  consented.  They  crossed  the  Maximilian 
Bridge  and  passed  along  the  leafy  avenues  of  the  "  new  pleasure 
grounds  "  on  the  banks  of  the  Isar ;  then  they  went  down  by 
Brunnthal,  and  again  crossed  the  river  by  the  wooden  bridge 
which  abuts  on  tlie  Tivoli  gardens.  Now,  as  it  happened,  Franz 
and  I,  who  had  been  dragged  by  Silber  many  times  to  the  theatre 
to  look  at  Fraulein  Riedel,  happened  to  be  sitting  under  the  Tivoli 
trees,  with  some  beer  on  the  small  table  before  us. 

"  Du  Himmel !"  exclaimed  Franz,  "  there  is  Silber,  with  his 
Schiitzchen  of  the  Volkstheater!" 

And  so  it  was.  Silber  saw  us,  gave  us  a  grave  bow,  and  passed 
sedately  on.  How  proud  he  looked  !  It  was  from  this  time  that 
lie  cultivated  more  and  more  the  student  appearance — wearing 
his  fair  hair  long  and  smooth,  sporting  blue  caps  with  prodigious 
gold  tassels,  smoking  preposterous  pipes,  talking  metaphysics,  of 
which  he  did  not  even  know  the  terminology,  and  drinking  beer 
in  (juantities  that  disagreed  with  him. 

"  Silber  is  a  vast  and  uncommon  humbug,"  Franz  used  to  say ; 
"  but  that  little  girl  with  the  black  eyes  believes  in  him." 

I  think  slie  was  (piite  a  r«'spectabK'  little  woman,  and  did  her 
best  to  keep  him  from  drinking  useless  (juantities  of  beer — a  feat 
he  never  sought  to  perform,  except  that  lie  might  boast  of  it  to 
her.  She  was  evidently  impressed  by  his  assuming  the  character 
of  the  careless,  happy,  brave,  and  withal  lovable  student  who 
figures  on  the  stage.  Why  could  she,  familiar  with  acting,,  not 
see  that  this  stupendous  ass  was  only  acting?     'I'liat  was  always 


THE    SONG    OF    WOLUNDUR.  26] 

a  mystery  to  Franz  and  me ;  for  we  did  not  believe  that  the  Frau- 
lein  was  actiially  in  love  with  him. 

"  How  many  glasses  of  beer  have  you  drunk,  Silber  ?"  Franz 
used  to  ask. 

"  Five." 
-    "Is  that  all?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Fraulein  Riedel  will  despise  you." 

"  Himmel  sapperment !"  Silber  would  growl ;  as  much  as  to 
say,  "Another  word  and  I  challenge  you,  ohne  Miitzen,  ohne  Se- 
cundanteny 

"  I  will  make  you  a  proposal." 

"  Well  r 

"  Pay  for  three  more  glasses  of  beer.  I  drink  them.  Then  you 
go  to  Fraulein  Riedel,  and  say,  '  Admire  me :  I  have  drunk  eight 
glasses  of  beer  !'  " 

With  which  Silber  used  to  become  furious,  and  declare  that  if 
we  were  in  Heidelberg  Franz  would  not  be  so  bold. 

I  could  forgive  Silber  everything  except  his  singing.  Of  course, 
he  fancied  that  he  ought  to  sing  the  "  Burschenlieder,"  to  support 
the  character;  and  he  used  to  sing  the  jovial  and  jolly  student- 
songs  with  an  affected  swagger  which  was  at  once  ludicrous  and 
irritating.  One  could  not  help  being  amused  by  Silber's  peculiar 
method  of  leering  at  the  humorous  passages,  nor  vexed  to  hear 
the  fine  and  manly  songs  burlesqued  by  this  poor,  conceited  wind- 
bag. Kotzebue's  "  Bundeslied  "  was  one  of  his  favorites,  as  was 
also  the  universal  "  Gaudeamus  igitur,"  which  Franz  used  to  alter 
in  this  way — 

"  Gaudeamus  igitur, 
Juvenes  dum  sumus, 
Post  jncundam  juventutem, 
Per  molestam  senectutem, 
Nos  habebit  conjux. " 

A  sorer  trial,  however,  was  Silber  at  love-songs ;  for  his  voice 
had  an  odd  habit  of  contradicting  the  theatrical  expression  of 
rapture  he  endeavored  to  throw  into  his  face.  W^ith  great  good 
humor,  Franz  used  to  play  accompaniments  whenever  Silber  would 
sing  ;  and  it  was  certainly  a  queer  conjunction  to  hear  the  sensi- 
tive, thrilling,  beautiful  music  of  the  zither  hovering  around  and 
about  poor   Silber's   quavering  voice.     Silber  had   a   notion   of 


262  KILMENY. 

learning  to  play  the  zither  himself ;  but  seemed  not  to  be  quite 
sure  whether  it  would  betit  the  character  he  ordinarily  assumed. 
Yet,  with  all  his  weaknesses  and  affectations,  the  lad  had  some 
good  points  about  him,  or  how  could  that  black-cycd  little  actress 
have  smiled  upon  his  uncouthncss  ? 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

NEWS    FROM    ENGLAND. 


Was  it  love,  or  was  it  the  keen  air  of  the  Tyrol,  that  awoke 
all  those  wild  enthusiasms  which  now,  as  I  look  back,  I  can 
see  clustering  around  our  happy  journey  through  the  mountain 
land  ? 

"  Why,"  I  said  to  myself,  "  should  I  return  to  those  old  dead 
times  for  a  story  ?  Why  not  take  our  modern  life,  which  is  as 
full  of  love  and  tragic  misery  as  any  time  before  it,  and  seize  the 
hearts  of  men  with  some  noble  tale  of  suffering  or  courage  or 
heroism?  And  what  is  the  message  which  I  should  take  home 
to  my  countrymen  from  this  rarer  atmosphere,  in  which  the  finer 
aspirations  of  human  nature  flourish — what  but  that  love  is  better 
than  wealth,  and  that  a  true  heart  is  of  more  value  than  big  es- 
tates?" 

The  message  was  not  nearly  so  stai'tling  as  I  fancied.  Many  a 
man  has  preached  it  without  being  much  attended  to  ;  many  a 
man  has  found  out  its  truth  when,  after  spending  a  lifetime  in 
growing  rich,  he  looks  back,  and  sees  in  the  past  a  young  face  full 
of  love  and  the  pain  of  |)artitig,  and  wonders  whether  less  money 
and  more  of  the  love  that  he  threw  away  might  not  have  made 
his  life  happier. 

"Why  are  you  always  so  silent  in  the  morning?"  asked  Franz, 
as  we  left  Jiregenz.  "  You  are  visited  by  grand  flashes  of  silence, 
in  which  you  seem  to  sink  into  your  breeches-pockets.  You  arc 
practically  dead.  You  see  nothing  and  hear  nothing,  unless  you 
are  listening  inside  your  brain  to  some  music  that  a  girl  sang  to 
you  in  I'^iiglaiid.      Is  that  true?" 

"Yes;   I  can  hear  her  singing  sometimes,"  1  said. 

We  had  turned  our  back  on  the  lake,  that  was  half  hidden  un- 


NEWS    FROM    ENGLAND.  263 

der  the  thick  white  mist,  and  were  now  skirting  the  base  of  the 
rocky  and  wooded  mountains  that  encircle  the  Tyrol,  preparatory 
to  our  crossing  the  giant  chain  of  the  Arlberg.  The  busy  Tyrol- 
ese  were  already  abroad  in  their  fields  and  meadows,  where  the 
small,  meek,  large-eyed  cattle  browsed.  As  we  ascended,  the  air 
became  rarer,  the  sun  broke  through  the  mist,  and  lit  up  for  us 
the  immense  range  of  the  Appenzeller  Alps,  that  were  here  and 
there  dusted  with  snow. 

"What  is  the  color  of  her  eyes?"  said  Franz,  insidiously. 

"  They  are  like  the  sea,"  I  said — "  of  all  colors,  in  different 
moods.     But  they  are  generally  dark  and  clear  and  calm." 

Franz  unsuccessfully  endeavored  to  push  his  inquiries  further. 

"Tell  me,"  he  said,  "  what  she  is  like  altogether,  and  I  will  write 
a  song  about  her  in  Tyrolese." 

"  A  song  has  been  written  about  her  already." 

"  By  whom  ?" 

"  Schiller.  She  is  the  beautiful  and  wonderful  maiden  who 
came  down  into  the  valley,  no  one  knew  whence." 

"  You  are,  then,  in  love  with  a  phantom  ?" 

"Yes,  Franz;  I  am  indeed  in  love  with  a  phantom." 

I  could  almost  have  believed  then  that  Hester  Burnham  had 
come  down  the  valley  before  us,  even  as  Schiller's  maiden  did ; 
for  by  reason  of  constantly  looking  at  things,  and  fancying  what 
she  would  think  of  them,  I  came  to  regard  them  as  having  already 
acquired  from  her  some  touch  of  fascination.  Would  it  ever  hap- 
pen that  I  should  bring  her  this  very  route  ?  Should  we  hire  a 
carriage  at  Bregenz,  drive  out  from  the  brisk  little  town,  along 
the  level  road  through  Dornbirn,  with  its  quaint  houses,  and  Ho- 
henembs  with  its  Jewish-featured  people — on  to  Feldkirch  and 
the  lovely  valley  of  the  111 — past  Bludenz,  with  the  mountains 
getting  higher,  and  the  valley  more  rugged — then  down  the  Klos- 
terthal,  to  rest  in  the  evening  in  the  old  inn  at  Dalaas,  with  a 
warm  and  well-lit  room,  and  casements  opening  to  show  us  the 
moonlight  shimmering  along  the  pale  white  glaciers  of  the  moun- 
tains under  which  the  little  village  lies?  Would  it  ever  be  my 
great  joy  to  wrap  up  the  little  figure  cosily  in  her  carriage,  and 
see  that  she  was  snug  and  warm  as  we  drove  through  the  cold 
mountain  air?  Should  I  be  able  to  look  in  her  eyes  as  I  drew 
the  shawl  tighter  under  the  small  chin,  to  keep  the  white  little 
neck  comfortable  and  close  and  safe  ?     Fancy  going  through  this 


264  KILMENY. 

V)eaiitiful  country  —  away  from  towns  and  stranp;ers,  and  the 
formal  obligations  of  society ;  her  only  duty  being  to  look 
and  charm  the  very  air  around  her,  mine  but  to  wait  upon  my 
dainty  little  queen,  and  beg  the  mountain-wind  to  be  gentle  with 
her  hair.  Of  these  sweet  dreams  the  deadliest  poison  of  misery 
is  made. 

The  Tyrol  was  for  me  henceforth  and  forever  saturated  with 
memories  and  thoughts  and  suggestions  of  Hester  Burnham.  Tho 
reader,  who  may  have  gone  through  this  charming  country,  and 
enjoyed  its  simple  ways,  its  homely  meals,  its  clear  air,  and  its 
splendid  lines  of  snow-hills,  will  perhaps  scarcely  understand  how 
a  small  lady,  secreted  among  the  leaves  of  Biickingliainshirc, 
could  have  changed  the  character  of  a  whole  country,  and  per- 
meated its  gigantic  mountains,  its  green  fields,  its  gray,  rushing 
rivers,  its  very  sunshine,  with  the  subtle  influence  of  her  presence. 
Tho  sunsiiinc  was  different  there.  A  month  later,  dwelling  among 
the  dull  white  houses  of  Munich,  I  used  to  wondiT  if  there  were 
any  sunshine  like  the  sunshine  of  the  Tyrol,  and  whether  she  and 
I  might  ever  see  It  together. 

As  ill-luck  would  have  it,  there  was  no  sunshine  for  the  Pro- 
fessor's party  in  crossing  the  Arlberg.  On  the  contrary,  we  found 
our  way  to  the  summit  of  the  mountain  in  dense  clouds  of  mist 
and  rain,  that  concealed  from  us  the  precipices  under  our  feet, 
and  prevented  our  looking  either  to  the  riglit  hand  or  to  the  left. 
It  had  been  raining  all  night,  too;  and  the  mountain  torrents, 
swollen  and  muddy,  dashed  down  the  channels  they  had  cleared 
for  themselves  with  a  noise  that  was  all  the  more  impressive  that 
we  could  only  now  and  again  catch  glimpses  of  the  masses  of 
foaming,  tumbling  gray  water.  Sometimes  the  mist  became  so 
thick  that  we  could  just  see  the  posts  stuck  along  the  edge  of  the 
road,  to  prevent  carriages  from  going  over;  while,  on  the  other 
hand,  there  was  a  faint  green  hue  appearing  through  the  vapor, 
which  we  took  to  be  the  wet  side  of  the  hill  glimmering  behind 
the  fog. 

There  was  only  one  water-pioof  coat  among  us,  and  that  wc 
voted  over  to  the  I'rofessor.     So  we  walked  on. 

"  I  take  it,"  observed  the  I'rofessor,  drawing  up  his  spare  figure, 
seemingly  in  defiance  of  the  rain  that  dashed  about  his  face  and 
trickled  down  his  nose — "  I  tak(>  it  that  all  imaginative  art  has 
sprung  from  the  mountain  districts  of  the  world — that  the  human 


NEWS    FROM    ENGLAND.  265 

mind  has  been  awakened  to  the  conception  of  music,  poetry,  and 
painting  by  the  solitude  of  mountains.  Yet  you  will  find  that 
the  men  who  have  caught  the  imaginative  width  and  power  of  the 
hills  into  their  nature  have  gone  down  into  the  plains — into  the 
towns  and  cities,  perhaps — to  seek  the  calm  of  artistic  expression. 
All  the  great  artists  of  Italy  have  been  born  beneath  the  spell  of 
the  Apennines ;  and  then  they  have  gone  into  Florence,  or  Rome, 
or  Milan,  as  the  case  may  be,  and  they  have  put  the  free  inspira- 
tion of  the  hills  into  their  work — " 

"  But,  Ilerr  Professor,  Michael  Angclo  was  not  born  among 
the  mountains,  and  he  had  the  most  powerful  imagination  of  them 
all,"  objected  Franz,  who  was  at  this  moment  a  wretched  spec- 
tacle. 

"  Learn,  sir,"  said  the  Professor,  "  never  to  destroy  a  theory 
with  a  fact.     Yet,  tell  me,  where  was  Michael  Angelo  born?" 

"  At  Arezzo,"  replied  Silber,  like  a  good  boy. 

"And  Arezzo,"  continued  the  Professor,  "  if  not  among  the  hills, 
is  only  a  few  miles  oflE.  It  is  no  farther  from  the  great  backbone 
of  the  Apennines  than  is  Urbino,  on  the  other  side,  where  Raphael 
grew  up  under  their  shadow.  Why,  you  ought  to  be  able  to  tell, 
without  knowing  where  he  was  born,  that  Michael  Angelo  was  no 
dweller  in  the  plains.  Look  at  his  '  Moses' — there  is  the  majesty 
of  a  great  mountain  in  that  figure — that  is  the  only  thing  by 
which  you  can  characterize  the  force  and  the  grandeur  of  it." 

"  I  know,"  said  Franz,  ruefully,  as  he  shook  his  dripping 
sleeves,  "  that  there  isn't  much  in  a  day  like  this  to  stir  one's  im- 
agination— unless  it  is  the  prospect  of  a  fire  and  some  cognac  at 
the  end  of  the  journey." 

"  It  is  the  wild  contrast  of  atmospheric  conditions,"  continued 
the  Professor,  "  that  impresses  one  who  is  brought  up  among  the 
hills  with  the  strong  life  and  intensity  of  nature.  There  is  no 
mild  sameness  always  around  him.  There  are  great  forces  at 
work,  a  constant  motion,  and  the  vivid,  startling  presentation  of 
change.  Look  around  you  just  now.  It  is  a  world  of  eddying 
mist  and  fog,  with  pitiless  rain,  and  the  sound  of  hurrying  waters 
sweeping  down  below  us,  unseen.  But  suppose  a  great  wind 
were  to  arise  right  ahead,  and  come  blowing  along  the  mountain- 
tops,  and  clear  away  the  fog  and  the  rain — suppose,  wher^  we 
were  in  dejection  and  despair,  this  great  wind  were  to  come,  and 
all  at  once  we  saw  before  us  the  valley  glittering  with  rain-drops 

M 


266  KILMENY. 

in  the  snn,  the  warm,  gleaminti;  light  all  around  us,  and  the  won- 
derful, intense  blue  overhead,  should  we  not  have  the  power  and 
the  beauty  of  the  sunlight  impressed  upon  us  as  it  never  was  be- 
fore? Then  the  simple  peasant,  reaching  up  his  hands  to  the 
warmth  and  the  sun,  and  thinking  tliat  heaven  has  suddenly  come 
near,  must  needs  sing  aloud,  as  if  he  were  a  bird,  to  the  blue  sky ; 
and  the  man  who  has  the  heart  of  a  painter  in  him  is  amazed  by 
the  intensity  of  the  colors  of  the  world  around  him,  and  forgets 
the  vision  never !  He  will  not  try  to  reproduce  this  wonder  of 
light — he  may  despair  of  his  colors;  but  all  these  intense,  vivid 
impressions  of  change  and  majesty  and  calm  and  beauty  that  he 
receives  among  the  hills  remain  a  power  within  him  ;  and  when, 
in  his  studio,  down  in  some  great  town,  he  tries  to  picture  to 
himself  the  grandeur  of  an  heroic  figure  or  the  purity  and  sweet- 
ness of  a  woman's  face,  his  memory  of  the  wonders  of  the  moun- 
tains will  lend  him  his  ideal.  Did  you  ever,  any  of  you,  see  Por- 
denone's  '  Santa  Giustina,'  which  is  in  the  Belvedere  at  Vienna  ? 
I  tell  you  that  to  look  once  at  that  woman's  face — to  get  a  glimpse 
of  its  surpassing  and  gracious  sweetness,  its  perfect  serenity  and 
repose — it  were  worth  while  to  walk  from  here  to  the  Kaiserstadt 
with  bare  feet!" 

The  I'rofessor  was  very  gruff  and  silent  for  some  time  there- 
after. He  had  been  surprised  into  an  enthusiasm,  and  there  was 
nothing  he  more  disliked.  His  singular  bashfulness  invariably 
produced  a  strong  reaction  ;  and  when  once  he  had  recovered  pos- 
session of  himself,  1  fancy  he  used  to  brood  over  what  he  had 
been  saying,  and  look  upon  himself  as  having  played  the  fool. 
He  used  to  blush  like  a  girl,  too,  after  these  outbursts;  but  on 
this  occjision  he  was  safe  from  scrutiny  by  reason  of  the  tall  col- 
lar of  the  water-proof  coat. 

"  I  know,"  said  Franz,  "  that  all  our  fine  old  melodies  have 
come  to  us  from  the  hills — from  the  Tyrol,  from  the  Tliiiringcr 
Wald,  from  the  Riesengebirge,  and  the  Saxon  Highlands." 

"You  ought  to  sing  one  now,  or  we  shall  all  be  getting  down- 
hearted," said  Siihcr.  "  We  don't  know  how  many  miles  it  is  yet 
to  Landeck,  and  tlic  rain  will  not  cease  to-day." 

"But  it  will  cea.sc  to-morrow,  or  .some  otlier  morrow,"  .said 
Franz,  gayly.  "You  ought  to  look  forward  to  the  snug  inn  at 
Landeck — tin"  warm  stoves,  a  schnitzel,  wine,  a  pipe,  and  sleep — 
all  (tf  which  luxuries  lie.  ahead.     1  have  the  picture  before  me. 


NEWS    FROM    ENGLAND. 


267 


A  large  room,  long  tables,  one  of  them  covered  with  a  white 
cloth ;  a  green  stove,  very  warm,  two  candles,  some  matches — " 

"  A  zither,"  I  added, 

"  And  a  picture  of  the  patron  saint  of  brewers,  the  king  Gam- 
brinus — a  jolly  person  in  blue  and  red  robes,  holding  a  foaming  jug 
of  beer  in  his  hand,  and  honored  by  these  highly  ingenious  lines— 

"  '  Gambrinus,  in  Flandeni  imd  Brabant, 
Ein  Konig  iiber  Lent'  iiiid  Land, 
Aus  Malz  und  Ho])fen  hat  gelehrt 
Zu  brauen  Bier  gar  lobenswerth, 
Drum  ist  er  in  der  Brauer  Orden 
Ihr  oberster  Patron  geworden  ; 
Wo  gibt's  ein  ander  Handwerk  mehr. 
Das  sich  kann  riihmen  solcher  Ehr?'" 

"  It  is  not  in  the  Tyrol,  Mr.  Franz,"  said  the  Professor,  "  that 
you  should  be  surprised  to  find  a  man  at  once  brewer  and  king. 
Remember  Andreas  Hofer." 

Which,  of  course,  set  Franz  into  singing  "  Zu  Mantua  in  Ban- 
den,"  with  its  touching  words  and  rather  commonplace  music. 

At  Landeck  there  was  more  awaiting  us  than  food  and  warmth, 
desirable  and  welcome  as  these  were.  The  Professor  had  had  an- 
other packet  of  letters  forwarded ;  and  among  them  was  one  for 
me.  By  the  handwriting  on  the  envelope,  I  saw  it  was  from 
Bonnie  Lesley. 

"  Will  she  tell  me  anything  about  Hester  Burnham  ?"  I  thought. 
"  Will  she  at  least  write  the  name,  that  I  may  carry  it  about  with 
me  ?" 

The  first  words  in  the  letter  (and  it  was  curious  to  read  her 
successive  statements  without  seeing  her  pretty  looks  of  wonder 
accompanying  them)  were  these — "  Hester  was  with  me  the  whole 
day  yesterday ;  she  is  living  with  some  friends  at  Notting  Hill. 
I  hope  I  am  betraying  no  confidence  in  telling  you  something 
about  her.  I  will  tell  you ;  and  you  shall  send  me  in  your  next 
letter  a  promise  of  secrecy.  Briefly,  then,  Hester  is  a  little  fool, 
and  is  about  to  make  herself  wretched  for  life.  Of  course,  you 
know  why.  Alfred  Burnham,  I  must  tell  you,  in  the  first  place, 
has  come  to  awful  grief ;  and,  as  far  as  I  can  understand  these 
matters,  has  taken  advantage  of  poor  Hester's  kindliness — weak- 
ness, I  call  it — and  has  landed  her  in  extreme  difficulties.  I  should 
not  be  surprised  if  she  had  to  sell  Burnham." 


268  KILMENY. 

To  sell  Bnrnham  !  Was  it,  then,  reserved  for  this  qniet  little 
girl,  so  prudent  and  considerate  in  all  her  ways,  to  let  the  old 
house  go  away  from  the  family  that  had  owned  it  for  many  cen- 
turies ?  What  had  she  done  that  the  pain  and  the  shame  of  this 
sacrifice  should  fall  upon  her?  It  is  recorded  in  history  that  one 
of  the  Burnhams  was  shorn  of  three  parts  of  the  then  extensive 
family  estates  (the  alternative  being  that  he  should  lose  his  right 
hand)  for  striking  the  Black  Prince  a  blow  on  the  face.  That 
was  the  first  step  to  narrow  the  means  of  the  Burnhams ;  and  now 
the  last  of  the  family,  a  girl,  was  to  give  up  the  final  relic  of  their 
ancient  power. 

"  Alfred  Burnham,"  continued  the  letter,  "  has  become  pen- 
itent, and  vows  that  the  only  thing  to  save  him  from  ruin  is  for 
Hester  to  marry  him.  Perhaps  he  speaks  the  truth,  and  hopes 
to  recover  himself  by  the  proceeds  of  the  sale  of  Burnham  ;  but 
he  has  persuaded  Hester  that  it  is  his  moral  reformation  she  is 
bound  to  accomplish.  Now  you  know  what  an  unselfish  little 
puss  she  is,  although  you  can't  see  that  as  we  women  see  it.  She 
is  so  far  removed  from  the  ordinary  jealousies  of  the  drawing- 
room,  for  example,  that  she  will  insist  on  other  people  singing 
her  best  songs ;  and  she  will  go  about  in  her  mouse-like  way, 
making  everybody  display  their  best  points  while  keeping  herself 
in  the  background.  Do  you  think  she  could  turn  a  cat  out  of  a 
chair  she  wanted  to  sit  in  ?  Well,  you  know,  all  this  is  very  pret- 
ty, and  it  makes  one  fond  of  the  sly  little  woman,  but  there  is  a 
limit  to  it.  And  she  has  taken  it  into  her  small  head  that  it  is 
her  duty  to  reform  her  cousin  hi/  marrying  him!  Did  you  ever 
hear  of  such  a  thing  ?" 

Yes,  I  had  heard  of  it  often.  And  I  had  seen  cases  in  which 
pure  and  good  women  allowed  themselves  to  suifer,  through  some 
such  theory  of  duty  and  self-renunciation,  the  most  cruel  and 
revolting  usage  at  the  hands  of  men  who  only  grew  the  more 
debased  by  being  accustomed  to  presume  on  their  great  unselfish- 
ness. 

"  I  acknowledge,"  continued  my  correspondent,  "  that  Hester 
has  some  spirit,  and  has  a  quiet,  determined,  managing  way  with 
hfr  that  many  j)cople  don't  perceive,  although  they  obey  it.  But 
wliat  rfft^ct  woul<l  that  have  on  a  man  like  Alfred  Uiirnliain,  who 
would,  I  am  sure,  leave  Burnham  and  its  present  mistress  to  thcm- 
Bclvcs  (that  is,  if  tlie  former  should  not  be  sold),  and  be  off  to  en- 


NEWS    FROM    ENGLAND.  269 

joy  tlie  pecuniary  results  of  the  marriage  in  freedom.  Meanwhile, 
poor  Hester  is  in  a  pitiable  state  of  apprehension  and  indecision. 
She  fancies  she  sliould  marry  him ;  and  yet  she  shrinks  from  it. 
You  know,  she  is  not  given  to  much  crying  or  hysterical  non- 
sense ;  but  yesterday,  when  she  sat  in  this  room,  and  spoke  to  me 
in  her  low,  frank  voice  about  these  things,  I  saw  tears  slowly  fill 
her  eyes  and  stealthily  trickle  down  her  cheek.  I  put  my  arms 
around  her  neck  and  hid  her  face,  and  let  her  cry  to  her  heart's 
content,  and  then  I  gave  her  a  hearty  scolding.  She  was  very 
much  shocked  by  the  way  in  which  I  spoke  of  her  precious  cous- 
in ;  but  I  had  the  satisfaction  of  seeing  that  it  had  at  least  awoke 
her  alarm.  She  went  away  without  having  said  anything  in  par- 
ticular.    I  am  to  see  her  in  a  day  or  two. 

"  Tell  me  what  you  think  of  the  complication.  Is  it  likely 
that  Alfred  Burnham  would  be  anxious  to  marry  Hester  at  once, 
if  it  is  true  that  these  monetary  affairs  will  necessitate  the  sale  of 
Burnham  ?  Of  course  the  place  would  fetch  a  large  sum,  and 
there  might  be  a-  handsome  balance  left,  worthy  of  that  gentle- 
man's consideration ;  but  somehow,  from  what  Hester  said,  I  have 
a  suspicion  that  this  terrible  collapse  on  the  pai't  of  Alfred  may 
be  only  a  ruse.  In  any  case,  he  holds  her  securities  for  a  consid- 
erable amount ;  for  she  told  me  of  the  altercation  she  had  had 
with  her  trustees,  lawyers,  and  what  not,  about  the  matter. 

" '  Besides,'  said  I  to  Hester,  '  suppose  you  were  capable  of  re- 
forming your  cousin,  don't  you  reflect  that,  in  sacrificing  yourself 
(as  you  assuredly  would),  you  are  also  sacrificing  some  other  man 
whom  you  might  have  made  happy  ?' 

"  '  I  have  never  given  any  man  the  right  to  think  of  me  in  that 
way,'  she  said,  a  little  proudly. 

"  '  My  dear,'  said  I,  with  the  calmness  of  superior  wisdom, '  that 
is  a  right  which  men  assume  without  its  being  given  them.  Now, 
on  your  honor,  is  there  no  man  whom  you  suspect  of  loving 
you?' 

" '  The  question  is  too  absurd,'  she  said,  hastily,  and  turned 
away  under  some  pretence  or  other. 

"  But  for  the  first  time  I  saw  in  her  eyes,  that  are  generally  so 
honest  and  clear  that  they  look  through  you,  a  sort  of  troubled 
concealment.  Can  you  read  me  my  riddle,  Mr.  Foreigner,  and  tell 
me  who  is  going  to  carry  off  the  lady  of  Burnham  ?  You  see  I 
have  not  given  in  yet  to  Hester's  folly,  but  I  shall  have  a  hard 


270  KILMENV. 

fight  with  her,  I  am  afraid,  before  I  can  make  her  change  her 
mind.'* 

There  was  nothing  else  of  any  importance  in  the  letter,  except 
that,  curiously  enough,  the  envelope  contained  a  slip  of  paper  with 
a  few  words,  and  a  "  gVuckliche  Reise  /"  from  Mr.  Morell.  How 
came  this  enclosure  there  ? 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 
BONNIE  Lesley's  metaphor. 


The  long  journey  through  cold  and  rain,  and  the  late  dinner 
that  followed,  made  our  party  rather  sleepy  that  evening.  The 
Professor  subsided  into  a  soft  slumber,  which  Franz  would  not 
break  by  taking  out  his  zither.  Indeed  the  whole  of  us  were  in 
a  comatose  state,  and  had  just  sufficient  energy  lo  keep  our  cigars 
from  going  out,  so  that  I  had  plenty  of  time  to  think  over  the 
contents  of  Bonnie  Lesley's  long  letter.  The  friendly  confidence 
therein  displayed,  and  the  concluding  hint  it  contained,  were  chief- 
ly, I  fancy,  the  result  of  an  excursion  which  she  and  I  had  made 
to  Richmond,  and  which  put  our  relations  on  a  much  more  inti- 
mate footing  than  they  had  ever  hitherto  been.  The  history  of 
that  excursion  was  a  curious  one.  When  1  went  up  to  London 
after  recovering  from  the  accident  down  in  Buckinghamshire,  I 
expected  that  Bonnie  Lesley  would  be  much  embarrassed  when 
we  met.  The  reader  may  remember  the  peculiar  confession  which 
the  beautiful  penitent  inade.  For  a  woman  to  tell  you  that  she 
has  been  trying  to  make  you  fall  in  love  with  her,  in  order  to  re- 
venge herself  on  somebody  else,  and  in  order  to  prove  to  this 
third  person  that  she  was  worth  falling  in  love  with,  is  rather  a 
startling  revelation.  Under  ordinary  circumstances,  you  could 
not  help  despising  the  woman  who  could  act  in  this  fashion,  how- 
ever ashamed  of  herself  she  professed  to  l)e.  At  least,  you  would 
expect  that  this  sense  of  shame  would  hang  about  her  for  some 
little  time,  and  put  some  constraint  on  her  inaiiiK  r. 

With  Bonnie  Lesley  nothing  of  the  kind  haj)pene(|.  When  I 
met  her  in  London,  she  comported  herself  as  if  nothing  had  oc- 
curred. 


BONNIE  Lesley's  metaphor.  271 

"  Is  it  true,"  I  asked  myself,  thoroughly  amazed,  "  what  Heath* 
erleigh  says — that  she  has  no  soul  ?  Is  she  incapable  of  feeling 
shame,  or  any  other  emotion  whatever  ?" 

I  looked  back  over  our  long  friendship ;  and  she  seemed  to 
have  been  always  the  same.  I  began  to  see,  however,  in  many  of 
her  words  and  actions  which  I  could  remember,  a  sort  of  self-con- 
scious effort  to  reach  sensitiveness,  as  if  she  thought  it  her  duty 
to  be  emotionally  struck  by  such  and  such  a  picture,  or  view,  or 
person.  She  wanted  to  be  what  she  could  not  be.  She  saw  this 
emotional  faculty  in  other  women,  and  strove  to  attain  it  without 
success.  Yet  she  counterfeited  it  sometimes  with  an  earnest  hy- 
pocrisy which  was  less  of  a  vice  than  a  virtue.  The  only  time  I 
ever  saw  her  genuinely  moved  was  when  she  made  my  sick-room 
down  in  Bucks  her  confessional ;  yet  now,  a  month  or  two  after- 
wards, she  met  me  as  if  she  had  never  been  there. 

I  was  rejoiced  to  find  her  so  little  embarrassed.  It  was  better 
to  sink  that  old  time,  with  its  foolish  notions.  So  I,  too,  met 
Bonnie  Lesley  as  if  nothing  had  occurred,  and  we  succeeded  so 
well  in  dropping  into  the  ordinary  relations  of  friends  that  she 
confided  to  me  a  great  secret,  and  asked  my  co-operation. 

"  The  day  after  to-morrow,"  she  said,  "  I  am  going  down  to  see 
Mr.  Lewison's  three  little  nieces — great  friends  of  mine — who  are 
at  school  in  Richmond.  I  often  go  down  to  see  them ;  and  they 
are  good  enough  to  call  me  Auntie  Canary,  because,  I  suppose,  I 
have  yellow  hair.  I  don't  know  any  other  reason.  Well,  it  is  no 
great  fun  for  the  poor  little  things  to  be  asked  to  a  formal  lunch- 
eon with  the  schoolmistress  and  me ;  and  I  have  determined  this 
time  to  go  down  early,  get  them  a  holiday,  and  take  them  to  dine 
at  the  Star  and  Garter.  Fancy  their  delight.  But  nobody  here 
must  know  anything  about  it,  until  they  find  it  out  afterwards; 
and  so  I  am  going  to  ask  you  to  write  and  make  the  proper  ar- 
rangements for  us  at  the  hotel — do  you  see  ?" 

"  Yes,"  said  I.  "  But  a  far  simpler  way  would  be  to  let  me  go 
with  you." 

"  I  am  going  alone,"  she  said,  doubtfully,  but  with  a  puzzled 
laugh  in  her  eyes. 

"  I  shall  go  alone,  too ;  and  meet  you  there." 

Even  now  she  looked  surprised  and  pleased,  although  I  know 
she  had  anticipated  the  offer. 

"  There  is  no  reason  why  you  shouldn't  come  up  to  Mr.  Lewi- 


2*72  KILMENY. 

son's,  and  drive  down  with  nie  in  the  brougham,"  she  said  ;  "  but 
it  would  add  a  little  mystery  and  romance,  wouldn't  it,  if  you  did 
meet  us  down  there?" 

"  Then  that  is  settled,"  said  I.  "  You  go  down  and  get  your 
nieces  out.  I  accidentally  meet  you  at  the  gate  of  Richmond 
Park,  above  the  hotel,  at  one  o'clock.  I  am  delighted  to  see 
you—" 

"  Well,  I  hope  so,"  she  said. 

"  — And  your  young  charges  also.  I  accompany  you  on  your 
walk,  and  instruct  them  in  the  differences  between  the  roe,  fallow, 
and  red  deer.  Perhaps  we  have  time  to  walk  down  by  Ham 
House  and  the  river.  Tlien  the  sight  of  Richmond  Hill  recalls 
to  me  that  the  children  must  be  getting  hungry ;  and  I  invite 
you  all  to  dine  with  me  at  the  hotel,  which  we  can  see  in  the  dis- 
tance." 

"  But,  at  present,  it  looks  as  if  I  were  inviting  you  to  dine  with 
me,"  she  said,  with  a  touch  of  fun  in  her  eyes. 

"  No,"  I  said,  "  that  is  not  proper.     Shall  it  be  one  o'clock  ?" 

"  Yes,  one,"  she  said. 

It  was  in  the  middle  of  summer,  but  a  light  wind,  blowing  over 
the  wooded  country  through  which  the  Thames  slowly  winds, 
cooled  the  sun's  heat,  and  sent  flakes  of  white  cloud  gently  across 
the  intense  blue  overhead.  There  was  a  mid-day  haze  clinging 
about  the  horizon  ;  and  even  here,  among  the  rugged  oaks  and 
undulating  slopes  of  Richmond  Park,  there  was  a  sleepiness  and 
silence  that  seemed  to  weigh  on  the  large,  mild  eyes  of  the  deer. 
Warm  and  still,  too,  lay  the  woods  along  the  river,  showing  every 
shade  of  green,  until  in  the  remote  west  they  turned  into  a  faint 
l)urj)lish-gray.  The  haze  hid  Windsor;  and  so  the  beautiful 
wooded  valley  seemed  to  lose  itself  in  the  white  of  the  horizon. 

Bonnie  Lesley  was  punctual.  Shortly  before  one  o'clock  I 
caught  a  glimpse  of  a  figure,  far  down  the  road,  that  actually 
shone  in  the  sunlight.  Even  at  that  distance  I  could  sec  that  slic 
wore  her  favorite  color — a  pale  blue  silk  dress,  with  a  white  shawl 
over  it  so  thin  that  the  blue  shone  through,  and  a  remarkably 
small  and  glossy  white  liat,  with  a  pert  blue  feather  in  it.  I  sup- 
posed that  she  had,  as  usual,  either  a  bunch  of  IjIuc  forget-me-nots 
or  a  white  rose  in  her  yellow  hair,  and  that  she  wore  some  strings 
of  large  wliite  beads  arouii<i  her  neck.  She  had  a  white  parasol, 
also,  with  a  gleam  of  blue  aroimd  the  edge. 


BONNIE  Lesley's  metaphor.  273 

There  were  three  children  around  her,  clearly  all  talking  to  her 
at  once,  and  coming  along  in  that  half-skipping,  half-jumping 
fashion  indicative  of  juvenile  excitement.  I  could  hear  their 
voices  a  long  way  off. 

I  was  very  much  surprised  and  delighted  to  see  her,  of  course ; 
and  was  formally  introduced  to  her  young  friends.  Two  of  them 
were  fair  and  ordinary-looking  young  misses,  but  the  third  one 
was  a  little  Brownie,  with  large,  mischievous  brown  eyes,  and  soft 
brown  hair.  Anything  to  approach  the  impudence,  the  cleverness, 
and  the  winning,  fascinating  ways  of  this  little  miss  I  have  never 
seen.  Although  the  youngest,  she  was  the  spokeswoman  for  her 
sisters,  and  did  not  a  little  to  shock  them  by  the  audacity  of  her 
fun.  During  the  whole  day,  it  was  "  Oh,  Ethel !  how  can  you  ?" 
or,  "  Oh,  Ethel,  I  do  wonder  what  has  come  over  you  !"  Ethel  re- 
marked that  she  preferred  the  company  of  gentlemen  to  that  of 
ladies ;  so  she  took  my  arm,  and  we  walked  on  in  advance  of  the 
others. 

She  began  to  tell  me  of  her  schoolmates,  and  their  friends,  and 
her  friends.  She  mimicked  this  one's  pompous  manner,  and  that 
one's  gruff  voice,  and  then  gave  an  admirable  imitation  of  her 
music-mistress. 

"  She  never  does  rap  our  knuckles,  you  know,  with  a  pencil, 
when  we  make  a  mistake ;  but  she  pretends  to  do  it,  and  then 
laughs — so — and  thinks  it  is  funny.  She  always  sings,  too,  when 
she  counts;  and, oh  dear!  she  can't  sing  a  bit,  and  it  is  so  dread- 
ful !  She  tries  to  follow  the  music  with  her '  one,  two,  three,  four ; 
one,  two,  three,  four ;'  and  she  does  it  out  of  time  and  leads  you 
wrong.  Now  how  could  you  help  yourself  if  you  had  a  music- 
mistress  like  that  ?" 

"  I  should  ask  her  not  to  sing." 

Ethel  burst  out  laughing. 

"  That  is  all  you  know  about  school !  My  stars !  she  would 
box  your  ears,  and  then  send  you  home.  There's  the  French  mis- 
tress, too — she's  another  caution — I  beg  your  pardon — I  must  say 
'fright.'  Lottie  White's  brother — oh,  such  a  wicked  boy  he  is! 
— told  Lottie  to  ask  Madame  if  she  would  translate  the  name  of 
a  play, '  Love's  Last  Shift,'  into  '  La  derniere  chemise  de  I'amour  ?' 
and  Madame's  rage  was  awful.  She  is  pale  and  dark,  and  has  a 
moustache,  and  I  think  she  says  very  naughty  things  sometimes, 
when  she  is  angry,  under  her  breath.     You  should  hear  her  when 

M  2 


274  KILMENY. 

she  comes  into  the  class-room  at  eleven.  She  says  to  us  all, 
'  Good-morning,  my  dear  children '  (she  says  it  in  French,  but  I 
sha'n't  let  you  hear  my  pronunciation)  ;  '  I  hope  you  will  be  good 
children  to-day,  and  profit  by  your  lessons.'  Lottie  White's 
brother  says  that  is  her  grace  before  meat." 

"  Do  you  like  French,  Ethel  ?" 

"  No ;  I  am  afraid  it  will  broaden  my  nose  if  I  go  on  with  it. 
And  Lottie  White's  brother  says  the  French  are  a  weak  sort  of 
people,  for  they  can't  say  no  without  using  two  words." 

"  Lottie  White's  brother  seems  to  say  a  good  many  things.  Do 
you  see  him  often  ?" 

"That  is  a  secret,"  said  Ethel,  with  a  comic  shyness.  "I  am 
not  going  to  tell  tales  out  of  school." 

"  Will  you  come  and  dine  with  me  at  the  hotel  over  there  ?" 

"  Oh,  with  pleasure !"  she  said,  with  a  mock  courtesy. 

"  Do  you  think  you  could  persuade  your  sisters  and  your  aunt 
to  come  also  ?" 

"  That  isn't  material,  is  it  ?"  she  said,  looking  up. 

"  But  it  would  be  so  nmch  better — so  nmch  jollier  to  have  them 
all  with  us." 

"  Then  1  will  ask  them." 

She  stopped  and  turned  to  the  others. 

"Ladies  and  gentlemen,"  she  said,  with  admirable  gravity,  "we 
invite  you  to  dinner.  You  needn't  change  your  dress  ;  there  will 
be  no  ceremony ;  and  no  papas  and  mammas  to  interfere  at  dessert." 

"You  forget  me,  Ethel,"  said  Bonnie  Lesley. 

"Oh,  we  can  always  coax  Auntie  Canary  into  good-humor  by 
saying  she  has  pretty  hair." 

"  Oh,  Ethel !"  said  her  elder  sisters,  in  a  breath. 

So  it  was  arranged  that  we  should  proceed  at  once  to  dmner. 
There  were  but  few  people  in  the  large  dining-room;  and  wlien 
the  three  small  ladies  and  their  aunt  had  left  their  hats  and  super- 
fluous articles  of  attire  up-stairs,  we  secured  a  table  at  the  spacious 
bay-window  which  looked  out  upon  the  garden  and  the  far  sunlit 
landscape  beyond. 

"Oh,  how  very  jolly  !"  cried  Ethel,  as  she  plumped  herself  down 
in  a  big,  soft  chair.  "  I  wish  Auiitif  (^anary  was  our  iii.imma,  and 
would  take  us  to  live  in  hotels  always.  Wouldn't  il  Ik-  jolly  to 
live  always  in  hotels,  and  have  everything  you  ask  for,  and  no 
schoolmistresses  or  lessons  f 


BONNIE  Lesley's  metaphor.  275 

*'  When  you  are  grown-up,  Ethel,"  said  Bonnie  Lesley,  "  you 
will  be  able  to  live  always  in  hotels  if  you  please." 

"  But  I  mayn't  like  it  then,"  said  Ethel,  with  precocious  philos- 
ophy. 

The  majority  of  voices  cai-ried  the  day  in  favor  of  sparkling 
Carlowitz ;  Ethel  wisely  observing,  however,  that  she  would  rather 
drink  no  wine  at  dinner,  and  have  a  glass  of  port  at  dessert. 

"  It  is  the  proper  time  for  wine,  isn't  it.  Auntie  ?  And  you 
know  I'm  very,  very  fond  of  port  wine ;  it  is  because  I  was  christ- 
ened in  it,  and  so  I  must  always  like  it." 

I  was  about  to  ask  her  the  meaning  of  this  remark,  which  I  did 
not  understand,  when  a  sharp  rattle  was  heard  on  the  window, 
which  made  the  children  jump.  I  looked  out  and  saw  on  the 
window-sill  a  small  blue  tom-tit,  that  was  bleeding  at  the  bill  and 
lying  quite  motionless.  We  raised  the  window  and  brought  the 
unlucky  little  bird  inside,  but  it  was  just  dying.  Ethel  took  it 
before  its  heart  ceased  to  beat,  and  while  there  was  yet  a  dumb 
frightened  stare  in  its  small  bright  eyes ;  and  she  folded  her  hands 
around  it  and  kept  it  close  into  her  bosom,  to  see  if  she  could  re- 
vive it.  I  saw  her  big  brown  eyes  fill  with  tears  when  it  became 
clear  that  the  bird  was  dead ;  and  it  was  some  little  time  before 
the  natural  gayety  of  the  children  recovered  from  the  shock. 

"  Birds  don't  go  to  heaven  when  they  die,"  said  Ethel,  contem- 
platively. "  The  best  they  can  expect  is  to  be  stuffed  and  put  in 
a  glass  case." 

"Don't  you  think,  Ethel,"T  asked,  "that  the  tom-tit  saw  your 
aunt  from  the  outside,  and  killed  itself  on  purpose  that  she  might 
wear  it  on  her  hat  ?" 

"  It's  Auntie  Canary,  not  Auntie  Tom-tit,"  said  Ethel,  rather 
irrelevantly,  but  with  the  effect  of  making  her  sisters  scream  with 
laughter. 

The  young  ones  were  in  no  hurry  with  their  dinner,  and  they 
lingered  quite  as  long  over  dessert.  Ethel  had  now  become  quite 
possessed  with  excitement,  and  was  making  small  speeches,  and 
acting,  and  mimicking  all  manner  of  people,  to  the  alarm  of  her 
sisters. 

"  Oh,  Ethel,"  they  cried,  "  you  must  be  mad." 
"  So  you  said  when  I  called  Mr.  Templeton  a  parson.     But  he 
is  a  parson,  for  a  clergyman  is  a  parson,  isn't  he,  Mr.  Ives  ?" 
"  Yes ;  I  think  so." 


276  KILMENY. 

"  And  he  comes  into  a  room  like  tliis — mincing  and  treading 
on  his  toes,  and  he  peers — so — through  his  blue  spectacles,  and  he 
bows — so — over  the  hand  of  the  lady  he  goes  up  to ;  and  he  always 
holds  his  cup  between  his  finger  and  thumb — so — and  says, '  I  am 
so  pleased  to  see  yah  this  evening' — just  as  he  drawls  in  the  pul- 
pit '  Ah  Fathah  which  aht  in  heaven — '  " 

"  Ethel !"  said  Miss  Lesley,  sharply  ;  and  Ethel's  sisters  looked 
inexpressibly  shocked. 

For  a  moment  or  two  Ethel's  countenance  fell ;  but  she  was 
presently  in  her  old  mood  again,  and  gayly  narrating  how  Lottie 
White's  brother  had  thrown  some  lucifer-matches  on  the  stage 
when  he  was  admitted,  along  with  the  other  relatives  of  the  school- 
girls, to  see  a  French  comedy  performed  by  the  young  ladies. 

"  But  do  you  know  what  Mrs.  Graham  is  particularly  angry 
about  just  now.  Auntie  ?"  she  said. 

"  No,"  said  Auntie,  with  wondering  eyes. 

"Well,  you  must  know,  ladies  and  gentlemen,  that  in  the  spring 
we  had  a  gardener.  He  was  a  very  nice  person,  for  he  used  last 
autumn  to  smuggle  us  all  kinds  of  fruit,  and  we  paid  him  with 
our  pocket-money,  when  we  had  any.  Well,  Mrs.  Graham  told 
him  he  must  leave,  and  gave  him  a  month's  notice.  So  Mr.  Gar- 
dener dug,  and  dug,  and  dug ;  and  made  squares  and  diamonds  and 
lozenges ;  and  filled  them  all  with  seed,  and  put  bits  of  stick  in, 
with  names  written  on  them.  Do  you  know  how  much  money 
Mrs.  Graham  gave  him  for  seed  for  the  kitchen  and  the  flower 
garden  ?" 

"  No." 

"  Nearly  £5.  W' asn't  it  a  lot  ?  WeW,  after  the  gardener  had 
gone,  we  waited  to  see  the  flowers  come  up  in  the  squares  and 
diamonds ;  and  we  knew  what  to  expect  as  the  earliest,  for  he  had 
written  all  the  names  of  the  flowers  on  the  sticks.  But  first  one 
thing  didn't  come  up,  and  then  another  thing  didn't  come  up, 
until  everybody  knows  now  that  he  never  sowed  any  seed  at  all. 
Wasn't  it  a  capital  joke,  Auntie  ?" 

*'  It  was  no  joke,  Ethel :  it  was  dishonesty,"  said  Bonnie  Lesley. 

"But  it  may  be  a  joke  as  well,  mayn't  it?" 

Then,  with  the  air  of  a  young  prim-ess,  she  asked  one  of  the 
waiters  to  tell  her  what  o'clock  it  was. 

"  Five  minutes  to  four,  miss,"  he  said. 

*'  Oh,  fancy,  fancy  !"   she   cried,  with   a  gesture   of  delight — 


BONNIE  Lesley's  metaphor.  2*77 

"  fancy,  ladies  and  gentlemen,  our  having  been  three  hours  at 
dinner !  Did  ever  any  one  hear  of  the  like  ?  And  I  have  had — 
oh,  how  many  kinds  of  fruit  and  sweets !" 

"  A  great  deal  too  many,  Ethel,"  said  the  elder  of  her  sisters, 
severely. 

"  Then  I  shall  be  ill  to-morrow  morning,  I  suppose.  But  you 
know,  Emmy,  that  that  is  all  nonsense.  We  dovHt  get  ill  after 
eating  heaps  of  jellies  and  sweets  and  fruit ;  and  it  is  only  the  old 
people  who  say  so  to  frighten  us.  I  suppose  they  don't  like  them, 
and  they  envy  us  our  liking  them." 

"  Ethel !"  said  Miss  Lesley,  reprovingly,  "you're  becoming  rude : 
don't  you  know  I  am  your  elder  ?" 

"  Oh,  Auntie  Canary,  you've  hair  like  a  fairy !"  said  Ethel,  with 
wicked  merriment  in  her  brown  eyes,  and  with  a  burst  of  laugh- 
ter which  was  sufficiently  infectious. 

I  think  they  would  readily  have  stayed  there  all  the  evening ;  and 
it  was  with  some  evident  reluctance  that  Ethel  accompanied  her 
sisters  up-stairs  to  prepare  for  going  back  to  school.  When  we 
arrived  there,  we  found  Mr.  Lewison's  brougham  already  waiting; 
and  Bonnie  Lesley  only  stayed  a  few  minutes  to  say  good-bye  to 
the  schoolmistress. 

Then  she  came  out.     As  I  handed  her  into  the  carriage,  I  said — 

"  Won't  you  offer  to  drive  me  up  to  town  ?" 

For  a  second  there  was  a  puzzled  and  surprised  look  in  her 
eyes ;  then  I  saw  an  inadvertent  glance  towards  the  solemn  per- 
son, in  a  green  coat,  brass  buttons,  and  black  cockade,  who  stood 
at  the  door;  and  then  she  said,  suddenly — 

"  Yes,  with  pleasure.  Do  come.  And  you  will  go  on  and  see 
Mr.  Lewison,  won't  you  ?" 

"  That,"  said  I,  when  the  grave  person  had  shut  the  door, 
and  received  his  instructions,  "  is  a  matter  we  can  settle  after- 
wards." 

It  was  a  ladies'  brougham.  No  one  had  ever  smoked  in  it.  On 
the  contrary,  the  dark -green  lining  and  cushions  were  saturated 
with  various  scents ;  and  in  one  of  the  leathern  pouches  there  was 
placed  a  flask  purporting  to  have  come  from  one  of  the  fifty  Fa- 
rinas of  Cologne.  Now  one  of  Bonnie  Lesley's  weaknesses  was 
a  love  of  powerful  perfumes ;  and  on  this  mild  summer  evening 
she  not  only  insisted  on  having  both  the  windows  up,  but  she  took 
down  this  bottle  (how  singular  it  is  that  all  these  Farinas  write  in 


278  KILMENY. 

the  same  fashion  !)  and  splashed  about  the  contents  until  the  at- 
mosphere "vvas  suffocating. 

"Do  you  wish  us,  then,"  I  asked,  "to  die  of  the  fumes  of  spir- 
its of  wine?     Charcoal  would  be  preferable." 

"  Do  you  think  so  ?"  she  asked,  with  a  wondering  little  laugh. 
"  If  it  were  possible  to  die  of  cau-de-cologne,  I  should  choose  that 
death.  You,  being  a  man,  would  of  course  choose  to  be  drowned 
in  a  butt  of  claret." 

This  led  us  on  to  talk  of  a  tragic  circumstance  that  was  inter- 
esting newspaper-readers  at  the  time.  A  young  man,  of  good 
family,  happened  to  fall  in  love  with  a  governess  who  lived  in  his 
father's  house,  a  pretty  young  girl  who  unfortunately  was  equally 
in  love  with  him.  The  young  man  insisted  on  marrying  this  girl ; 
the  father  threatened  him  with  the  usual  penalties  if  he  did ;  and 
the  governess  was  ordered  to  leave.  On  the  day  before  she  was 
to  go  the  father  was  sitting  in  the  drawing-room,  at  the  end  of 
which  was  a  conservatory  opening  into  the  garden.  His  son  and 
the  governess  came  into  this  conservatory,  and  sat  down  beside  a 
small  table,  on  which  some  wine  and  glasses  had  been  left.  The 
father,  probably  wanting  to  see  how  the  two  lovers  would  behave, 
sat  still  and  looked  through  the  glass  doons.  Standing  with  his 
back  to  him,  the  son  apparently  poured  something  into  two  glasses, 
giving  one  of  them  to  the  girl.  With  surprise,  he  saw  thera  both 
stand  up,  clasp  each  other's  hand,  and  with  the  left  hand  raise  the 
glasses  to  their  lips.  "  It  is  a  lover's  parting,"  he  thought.  The 
next  moment  the  girl  sank  into  the  chair  behind  her,  and  the 
young  man  fell  heavily  back  on  the  stone  floor.  The  father 
rushed  to  the  conservatory,  opened  the  doors,  and  was  immedi- 
ately struck  by  the  powerful  odor  of  almonds  that  was  in  the  air. 
lioth  of  the  lovers  were  dead. 

The  circumstance  naturally  produced  a  profound  sensation,  and 
most  people,  while  deprecating  in  a  conventional  fashion  the  rash- 
ness of  the  suicide,  sympathized  with  the  two  unfortunates,  and 
were  inclined  to  look  upon  the  deed  as  rather  heroic. 

"  I  suppose  you,  too,  think  it  was  very  heroic,"  I  said  to  Bon- 
nie Lesley,  "this  devoted  love,  and  constancy,  and  resolution  ?" 

"  Well,"  she  said,  "  I  think  it  is  fine  in  these  days  to  meet 
some  such  story  as  this,  to  show  you  that  love  is  still  possible, 
and  that  it  is  capable  of  triumphing  over  tlic  worldly  and  selfish 
notions  that  are  common," 


BONNIE  Lesley's  metaphor.  2V9 

"  Do  you  know,"  I  said,  "  that  the  story  of  Edward  A and 

that  young  girl  produces  quite  the  contrary  impression  upon  me  1 
I  look  upon  it  as  the  worst  symptom  I  know  of  the  degraded 
sentiment  of  the  present  time.  Why  did  he  kill  himself  and  her? 
Not  for  the  sake  of  their  love,  but  on  account  of  his  father's  threat. 
His  real  theory  was,  '  I  love  this  girl,  and  wish  to  marry  her.  But 
if  I  do  I  must  become  poor,  and  give  up  society.  So,  rather  than 
lose  the  luxuries  to  which  I  have  been  accustomed,  I  will  kill  my- 
self and  the  girl  also.'  Confess,  now,  that  he  was  an  abject  sneak, 
instead  of  a  hero  !" 

"  Well,"  she  said,  doubtingly,  with  a  smile,  "  there  is  something 
in  what  you  say.  But  unless  he  had  loved  the  girl  very  much — " 
"  I  say  he  loved  his  social  position  more.  Look  at  the  circum- 
stances. Here  are  two  young  people,  with  average  health,  who 
have  fallen  in  love.  They  have  youth,  hope,  a  good  circulation, 
and  faith  in  each  other.  What  more  would  they  like?  The 
world  is  before  them.  People  with  far  less  stock-in-trade  have 
encountered  the  conditions  of  life,  got  to  understand  them,  and 
managed  to  live  very  comfortably.  Poverty  is  as  yet  an  un- 
known experience  for  them  :  they  have  not  that  excuse  for  going 
to  extremes.  But  the  man  is  so  great  a  coward  that  he  distrusts 
his  capacity  to  exist  without  his  father's  help.  He  fears  to  take 
the  chance  of  the  future  which  hundreds  of  thousands  of  men  and 
women,  far  from  heroic,  annually  take ;  and  so  he  says,  '  Life 
without  my  horses,  cigars,  and  wine  would  be  worse  than  death ; 
and,  therefore,  Bessy  dear,  we  must  die.'  Such  is  the  product  of 
the  sentiment  of  England  in  the  nineteenth  century !" 

"  You  have  converted  me,"  she  said.  "  I  think  he  was  a  con- 
temptible coward,  and  the  only  pity  is  that  the  girl  was  killed  as 
well." 

"  So,  Mr.  Edward,"  she  continued  presently,  in  a  lighter  tone, 
"  you  have  suddenly  taken  a  strong  opinion  on  the  point  that 
differences  of  social  station  should  not  interfere  with  love-mar- 
riages. Does  your  theory  hold  both  ways — for  instance,  when  the 
woman  is  rich  or  well-born,  and  the  man  is  poor  ?" 
"  No,  it  does  not." 

"  Oh,  you  think  a  woman  who  is  rich  should  not  marry  a  man 
who  is  poor?" 

"  What  is  the  use  of  laying  down  arbitrary  laws,  when  every 
case  is  dissimilar,  when — " 


280  KILMENY. 

"  Don't  be  angry.  Let  ns  take  one  case.  The  lady  is  well- 
born, tender-hearted,  tolerably  rich,  and  has  a  pretty  considerable 
pride  in  her  ancestry.  The  lover  has  no  family-tree,  and  little 
money ;  but  he  has  all  manner  of  manly  and  lovable  qualities 
that  win  the  lady's  liking  and  admiration.  Now,  ought  they  to 
marry  ?" 

"Not  in  England;  particularly  if  she  has  a  lot  of  friends  and 
relatives." 

"  A  decisive  judgment,"  she  said,  smiling ;  "  still  you  leave  me 
a  loop-hole  of  escape.  They  may  marry  out  of  England.  Then 
you  don't  see  any  real  obstacle  to  their  union,  so  far  as  they 
themselves  are  concerned  ?" 

"  How  can  there  be  ?" 

"  Forgive  me  for  saying  it,  but  you  stare  at  such  a  notion  as  if 
there  were  something  ghastly  in  it.  Yet  it  is  natural  that,  wher- 
ever she  goes,  the  girl  will  retain  much  of  the  opinions  she  has 
caught  in  our  English  atmosphere,  and  may  even  at  times  show 
the  awkwardness  of  over-striving  to  convince  the  man  that  he  is 
her  equal." 

"  Then  they  ought  not  to  marry,  if  such  is  her  character.  Tt 
depends  wholly  on  that.  If  she  is  honest  and  earnest  in  loving 
the  man,  there  will  be  no  question  of  awkwardness,  no  embarrass- 
ment between  them ;  and  so  far  from  striving  to  make  him  her 
equal,  she  will  look  up  to  him  as  her  natural  superior." 

"  And  do  you  really  think,"  she  asked,  slowly,  "  that  there  is 
one  woman  in  England  capable  of  all  this  ?" 

"  Plenty,"  I  answered. 

"  Why,"  she  said,  with  a  look  of  pleased  astonishment,  "  your 
splendid  belief  in  women  is  quite  catching.  Do  you  know  that, 
when  I  hear  you  talk  so,  I  feel  that  I  could  go  and  be  a  heroine 
such  as  you  imagine  ?  I  do,  indeed  ;  but  then  I  should  probably 
feel  myself  badly  qualified  for  the  part  afterwards,  and  regret 
that  I  had  undertaken  it.  Still,  I  like  to  hear  you  talk  so ;  for 
wc  women  cannot  be  so  very  bad  if  one  or  two  men  think  of  us 
like  that.  I  suppose,"  she  added,  turning  her  eyes  upon  me, 
"  that  you  don't  know  of  any  two  people  who  could  try  such  ai> 
cxporiment  as  that  wc  described?" 

"I?     How  should  1?" 

"  I  do." 

"  Indeed." 


BONNiK  Lesley's  metaphor.  281 

"Yes;  and,  strangely  enough,  I  am  the  friend  of  both  of  them. 
Yet  I  don't  think  they  will  ever  marry." 

"  Why  ?" 

"  Because,"  she  said,  slowly,  "  the  man  is  proud,  and  the  woman 
is  sensitive  and  reserved.  The  one  will  not  speak,  and  the  other 
cannot  make  advances ;  and  so  they  allow  the  chance  to  slip  by, 
and  other  circumstances  will  arise.  The  woman  will  be  led  into 
marrying  some  one  else ;  and  the  man  will  break  his  heart  slowly 
in  work  that  has  lost  interest  for  him." 

"  You  don't  give  me  any  suggestion,"  she  said,  rather  petulant- 
ly, after  a  while.     "  What  have  you  to  say  about  these  two  ?" 

"  Oh,  nothing.  They  are  probably  unfitted  for  each  other,  or 
they  would  have  come  to  an  understanding  long  ago." 

"  Now  that  is  just  the  point  I  meant  to  arrive  at,"  she  said. 
"  What  is  it  that  prevents  their  coming  to  an  understanding  ? 
You've  seen  two  drops  of  water  on  a  table  lie  perfectly  still  and 
quiet,  although  they  are  within  an  eighth  of  an  inch  of  each  other. 
But  if  you  put  the  least  thing  between  them — if  you  draw  one  of 
them  a  little  way  with  the  point  of  a  needle,  there  is  a  splendid 
rush,  and  you  can't  tell  the  one  from  the  other.  I  am  the  mutual 
friend  of  these  two  people — " 

"  And  you  would  perform  the  office  of  the  friendly  needle  ?" 

"  Precisely.  I  owe  a  debt  of  gratitude  to  the  one,  and  a  debt 
of  contrition  to  the  other ;  what  if  I  paid  both  off  by  one  grand 
stroke  of  mediation  ?" 

"  Taking  it  for  granted  that  both  of  them  would  thank  you — 
that,  in  other  words,  both  of  them  love  each  other.  It  is  taking 
too  much  for  granted.  Miss  Lesley." 

"  But  at  least  there  could  be  no  harm  in  my  attempting  it,  and 
seeing  how  far  it  would  be  acceptable  to  both." 

"You  mean,"  said  I,  calmly,  "that  you  intend  to  pave  the  way 
for  a  marriage  between  Miss  Burnhara  and  myself." 

She  started  visibly  when  I  thus  dragged  her  from  the  ambush 
of  metaphor. 

"  You  frighten  me,"  she  said,  "  when  you  speak  in  that  cold 
and  bitter  way,  as  if  you  were  suffering  greatly,  and  still  laughed 
at  your  sufferings.     What  is  it  you  see  between  you  and  her  ?" 

Yes,  indeed :  what  was  it  that  kept  hovering  between  me  and 
Hester  Burnham — blotting  out  the  beautiful  lines  of  her  features 
and  the  lustre  of  her  eyes,  so  that  I  could  see  them  no  more — 


282  KILMENY. 


what  but  the  face  of  Weavle  and  the  memory  of  those  earW 

years  ? 

******* 

The  Professor  awoke  with  a  snore. 

"  I  have  slept,"  he  said. 

"  We  have  all  been  asleep,"  said  Franz,  "  except  Mr.  Edward, 
who  has  been  sitting  and  dreaming  of  England,  with  an  open 
letter  in  his  hand.     Were  the  dreams  pleasant?" 

"  Yes,"  I  said.  "  They  were  about  Richmond,  in  England,  and 
a  summer-day  I  spent  there." 

"  Ah,  I  dined  there  once,"  said  the  Professor,  "  with  several  of 
your  great  men.  I  was  surprised  to  find  that  they  ate  much  and 
spoke  little.  But  that  was  of  no  consequence  to  me,  as  I  could 
find  nobody  who  could  speak  French  with  ease,  and  so  I  was 
helpless." 

Silber  went  to  the  window,  and  uttered  a  shout  of  joy. 

"  The  rain  is  over ;  the  night  is  fine.  Herr  Professor,  wc  shall 
have  a  beautiful  day  to-morrow." 

So  we  departed  to  our  several  rooms.  Mine  was  next  to  that 
of  Franz;  and  I  could  hear  him  singing  of  Schiller's  wonderful 
maiden  who  came  down  into  the  valley  in  the  spring-time. 
How  did  it  fare,  I  thought,  with  that  tender-hearted  girl  who  was 
then  among  the  dark  trees  of  Burnham  ?  At  least,  the  same  sky 
was  over  our  heads,  and,  though  wc  might  never  see  each  other 
on  the  voyage,  we  were  still  travelling  towards  the  same  far 
bourne. 


CHAPTER  XXXH. 

INNSBRUCK. 


SiLBBR  was  right  in  his  conjecture.     Never  was  there  a  lovelier 

morning  than  that  on  which  we  started  from  Landcck  to  wander 
down  the  picturesque  valley  of  the  Inn  to  Irnst.  We  had  gradu- 
ally ascended  for  a  day  or  two,  until  even  the  valleys  were  high 
above  the  level  of  the  sea ;  and  the  rarity  of  the  mountain-air  had 
its  natural  effect  upon  our  spirits.  Then  the  beauty  of  the  coun- 
try— the  swollen,  rushing  gray  waters  of  th((  Inn  sweeping  down 
the  spacious  chasm,  the  warm  sunlight  lying  on  the  small  farm- 


INNSBRUCK.  283 

houses,  the  fronts  of  which  were  covered  with  yellow  maize  hung 
out  to  dry,  the  flocks  of  goats  on  the  hill-sides,  the  great  masses 
of  berberry-bushes  covered  with  scarlet  wax-like  berries,  and  all 
around  the  magnificent  hills,  with  the  splendid  peaks  of  the 
Tschiirgant  and  Sonnenspitz  hemming  in  the  end  of  the  valley. 

Much  wilder  and  more  solitary  was  the  great  valley  which  we 
entered  after  leaving  Imst.  Here  the  mountains  showed  a  pecul- 
iar, soft,  olive-green  hue  up  to  the  very  snow-line;  and  when  the 
sun  fell  on  these  far  masses  of  hills,  the  olive-green  became  warm 
and  dark,  like  velvet  in  firelight.  Round  the  base  of  the  mountains 
stretched  large  forests,  here  and  there  broken  by  a  patch  of  gray, 
where  a  mountain-torrent  had  cleared  a  passage  for  itself  down 
to  the  Inn,  bringing  masses  of  debris  with  it.  It  was  Sunday,  too ; 
and  in  some  small  village,  shining  yellow  with  hung-up  maize,  you 
would  hear  the  crack  of  the  rifle  echoing  along  the  hills,  Sunday, 
after  service,  being  the  favorite  time  for  the  Tyroler's  practis- 
ing. Occasionally  we  met  a  sturdy  peasant  marching  along  with 
his  huge  weapon  in  its  cumbrous  water-proof  covering,  wonder- 
ing, probably,  how  many  kreutzer-points  he  was  likely  to  make. 
The  women,  having  come  from  the  small  village  church,  were  in 
their  finest  attire,  and  stared  curiously  at  us  as  they  returned 
Franz's  "  Gruss  GottP''  while  the  young  lasses,  in  their  braided 
bodices,  short  petticoats,  and  peculiar  hats,  had  a  sly  look  at  Sil- 
ber,  whose  student-appearance  they  doubtless  admired  extremely. 

"  Do  you  know  that  chamois  is  to  be  had  here  for  sixpence  per 
pound  ?"  said  Franz,  "  so  we  need  not  scruple  to  ask  for  it  in  the 
inns." 

We  remained  a  few  days  at  Silz,  exploring  the  Oetzthal  and  fill- 
ing our  portfolios  with  sketches ;  and  we  soon  got  accustomed  to 
eating  chamois.  Indeed,  chamois-flesh  much  more  nearly  resembles 
in  flavor  roe-deer  venison  than  the  flesh  of  the  goat — a  dainty  we 
occasionally  met  with,  but  failed  to  appreciate.  From  Silz  we  pass- 
ed along  the  splendid  Oberinnthal,  with  its  masses  of  gray  lime- 
stone mountains,  flecked  with  snow,  the  needle-peaks  of  the  Sel- 
rain  lying  down  in  the  south.  Towards  sunset  we  drew  near 
Innsbruck ;  and  I  shall  never  forget  the  strange  appearance  which 
presented  itself  to  us  near  Zirl.  The  sun  had  sunk  behind  the 
Tschiirgant,  far  in  the  west ;  and  all  around  us  the  limestone 
mountains  were  darkening  in  their  gray,  the  sky  above  having 
changed  from  red  and  gold  to  a  pale,  chilly  green.     All  at  once, 


284  KILMENY. 

as  we  looked  up  and  over  tlic  dark  mountains  on  our  left,  we  saw 
an  immense  cone  of  fire,  still  and  cold.  The  wonderful  gleam  of 
this  snow-peak,  which,  rising  into  the  pallid  and  dusky  twilight, 
caught  the  last  light  of  the  sun,  had  an  extraordinary  efiFect ;  it 
seemed  as  if  the  dark  ridge  of  mountains  in  front  alone  separated 
us  from  a  world  on  fire  on  the  other  side. 

"  Do  not  look  at  that  any  more,"  said  the  Professor,  "  or  it  will 
turn  red,  and  then  gray,  and  then  purple.  Come  away  now  ;  and 
as  long  as  you  live  you  will  be  able  to  see  in  your  mind  that  won- 
derful peak  of  yellow  fire  standing  all  by  itself  in  the  twilight." 

Then  we  passed  underneath  the  Martinswand,  where,  as  you 
may  know,  the  Emperor  Maximilian,  chasing  a  chamois,  rolled 
down  a  precipice,  and  clung  to  a  projecting  rock.  No  one 
could  reach  him ;  but  the  priest  of  the  neighborhood  got  up  a 
procession,  raised  the  host,  gave  the  Emperor  absolution,  and  im- 
plored divine  succor ;  whereupon  an  angel,  in  the  guise  of  a  cha- 
mois-hunter, appeared  and  saved  the  Emperor,  to  the  great  glory 
of  the  Church. 

*'  Now,"  said  the  Professor,  "  the  story  of  the  Emperor's  peril 
and  deliverance  seems  to  be  well  authenticated  ;  and  1  take  it  that 
ho  was  rescued  by  a  chamois-hunter — probably  one  of  his  attend- 
ants, I  should  like  to  know  how  they  smuggled  this  poor  man 
out  of  the  road  in  order  to  persuade  the  people  that  it  was  an 
angel  who  saved  the  Emperor's  life." 

"  Very  likely  they  murdered  him  for  the  good  of  the  Church," 
remarked  Franz. 

"  It  is  clear,"  said  the  Professor,  "  that  he  could  not  have  been 
ennobled,  or  presented  with  a  piece  of  land  in  his  native  valley, 
for  either  would  have  contradicted  the  story  of  the  angel.  lie 
could  not  have  remained  in  the  character  of  an  angel  at  Maxi- 
milian's court,  or  in  custody  of  a  farm ;  for  we  don't  naturalize 
angels,  even  in  legends." 

"They  may  have  given  him  a  post  in  the  army,  "  said  Franz; 
"  and  very  likely  he  would  live  to  a  good  old  age,  and  hear  the 
story  of  the  miraculous  deliverance  so  often  that  he  would  come 
to  believe  it  himself.  But  there  is  something  highly  humorous 
in  the  notion  of  the  worthy  priest,  while  the  Emperor  was  hang 
ing  on  to  a  rock,  getting  up  a  religious  procession  and  going 
through  ceremonies  at  the  foot  of  the  place,  instead  of  sending 
people  with  ropes.     I  wonder  if  Maximilian  swore  at  them  *,  and 


INNSBRUCK.  285 

whether  he  felt  inclined  to  hang  the  lot  of  them  after  he  came 
down  ?" 

"  I  admire  your  efforts  at  historical  criticism,"  said  Silber. 
"  You  are  supplementing  one  legend  with  half  a  dozen  others ; 
and  the  result  is  that  you  miss  the  points  of  divergence,  and  end 
in  vapor," 

This,  I  take  leave  to  say,  is  perhaps  the  most  idiotic  remark 
ever  made ;  but  Silber  delivered  it  in  an  impressive  and  thought- 
ful manner,  as  befitted  a  man  who  knew  something  of  Heidel- 
berg, metaphysics,  and  beer.  Franz  looked  at  Silber,  expecting 
him  to  laugh  ;  but  when  he  saw  that  Silber  was  in  earnest,  he 
took  to  whistling ;  and  so  we  went  on. 

The  dark  and  narrow  streets  of  the  capital  of  the  Tyrol  were 
glittering  with  gas-lamps  as  we  crossed  the  broad  bridge  and  en- 
tered the  town.  We  made  our  way  to  our  appointed  resting- 
place,  and  for  the  first  time  for  some  weeks  found  ourselves  sur- 
rounded with  the  luxuries  of  a  hotel.  There  were  still  a  few 
tourists  in  Innsbruck,  chiefly  American;  but  there  were  one  or 
two  English,  and  it  was  with  a  strange  sensation  that  I  heard  my 
native  language  spoken  again.  We  dined  at  the  table-d'h6te  that 
evening;  and  I  can  believe  that  the  English  family  who  sat  op- 
posite us  looked  with  some  wonder  and  a  little  contempt  upon 
our  peculiar  travelling-dress.  Indeed,  with  that  airy  confidence 
which  distinguishes  our  countrymen  abroad,  the  father  and  eldest 
son  made  some  observations  which,  to  put  Franz  in  a  good-humor, 
I  translated  to  him.  He  laughed  heartily,  and  looked  so  pointed- 
ly at  our  opposite  neighbors  that  they  spoke  less  loudly  there- 
after. 

There  was  no  letter  from  Heatherleigh.  What  had  occurred  to 
interfere  with  his  writing  ?  We  had  a  walk,  after  dinner,  through 
the  low  archways  and  along  the  narrow  thoroughfares  of  the  town, 
and  then  we  retired  to  rest,  somewhat  tired  after  our  long  ramble. 

Next  morning  we  went  to  have  a  look  at  the  environs  of  Inns- 
bruck, and  made  our  way  up  to  the  hill  on  which  the  Schloss 
Amras  is  built.  From  the  tower  of  this  castle  we  had  an  excel- 
lent view  of  the  great  and  elevated  plain  through  which  runs  the 
Inn,  cutting  Innsbruck  in  two  on  its  way.  So  lofty  is  this  plain 
that  the  mountains  which  surround  it  have  their  snow-line  singu- 
larly low ;  so  that  the  visitor,  looking  at  them  on  a  warm  autumn- 
day,  is  struck  by  the  notion  that  he  can  easily  walk  up  the  side 


286  KILMENY. 

of  one  of  those  liu£i^e  masses  of  limestone  and  find  himself  walk- 
ing upon  snow.  The  Martinswand  now  seemed  to  block  up  the 
entrance  to  the  Oberinnthal,  through  which  we  had  come  on  the 
previous  afternoon ;  and  lying  on  this  side,  just  looking  down  on 
the  plain,  and  on  the  many  steeples  of  Innsbruck,  were  the  gray 
and  misty  bulks  of  the  Solstein,  Brandjoch,  Seegruben,  Rumer 
Joch,  and  Spech-Kor,  with  here  and  there  a  small  cluster  of  houses 
near  their  base,  whence  rose  a  pale  blue  smoke  into  the  morning 
sunlight. 

"  What,"  said  Franz,  "  if  that  wonderful  fire-peak  we  saw  last 
night  was  the  Solstein  over  there ;  and  what  if  the  mountain  got 
its  name  because  it  catches  the  evening  light  like  that  ?" 

"  Nothing  more  probable,"  said  the  Professor.  "  The  great 
Solstein  lies  just  behind  the  Martinswand." 

"  And  is  9300  feet  high,"  said  Silber,  who  had  been  bothering 
the  peasantry  all  the  way  along  with  questions. 

We  went  through  the  quaint  old  castle,  and  Franz  was  permit- 
ted to  play  an  air  on  the  chamber-organ  that  once  belonged  to 
Philippine  Welser.  The  instrument  was  in  fair  tune,  and  the  re- 
sult sufficiently  good.  What  honest  workmen  they  must  have 
had  in  those  times !  Fancy  how  one  of  our  gorgeous  piano-fortes 
— all  carved  wood,  and  satin,  and  polish — will  sound  four  hur)dred 
years  hence. 

That  evening  we  went  to  the  theatre ;  the  Professor,  however, 
remaining  at  tlie  hotel ;  and,  as  luck  would  have  it,  the  piece  to 
be  played  was  Benedix's  "  Mathilde ;  oder,  ein  deutsches  Frauen- 
herz,"  the  hero  of  which  is  a  poor  artist.  We  had  a  box  for  three 
florins;  although  Silber  pointed  out  that  the  manager,  wishing  to 
make  liis  theatre  a  means  of  education,  had  offered  all  students 
tickets  at  reduced  rates.  "  Fiir  die  IJerren  Stndien-nden  sind 
Parterre-Billets  si  25  Kr.  beim  llerrn  IJniversitats-Pedell  Hofer  zu 
haben."  Silber  fancied  lie  ought  to  have  the  same  privilege  as 
the  university  students,  and  evidently  thought  he  would  rather 
be  in  the  pit  among  th<;  soldiers  and  the  scholars  than  in  the 
boxes  with  the  comfortable  and  i'hilistini(;  hourt/eoisie. 

It  was  a  hard  ordeal  for  the  piece  that  it  should  have  been  criti 
cised  by  a  band  of  young  artists,  who,  just  fresh  from  a  long  jour- 
ney, were  practical  in  their  notions  and  courageous  in  their  hopes. 
Franz  was  most  unmercifully  severe  nj>on  ]>oor  Bertliold  Arnau, 
the  artist,  who  is  in  love  with  a  rich  merchant's  daughter;   who 


INNSBRUCK.  287 

has  grand  dreams,  and  is  tortured  by  distrust  of  his  own  capacity  ; 
who  makes  love  to  Mathilde  secretly,  and  then  tamely  submits  to 
be  turned  out  of  the  house,  with  shame  and  contumely,  when  his 
love  is  discovered. 

"What  a  fool  of  an  artist !"  cried  Franz,  with  infinite  contempt. 
"  What  is  the  use  of  his  crying,  '  I  feel  it ;  I  feel  the  power  with- 
in me ;  and  then  it  dies  away,  and  I  am  in  despair !'  Instead  of 
vaporing  to  a  girl,  why  doesn't  he  sit  down  and  take  out  his 
palette  ?" 

Further  on,  when  Mathilde  has  left  her  father's  house  and  mar- 
ried Berthold,  who  is  now  grown  rich  and  prosperous,  the  father 
offers  to  be  reconciled,  and  the  offer  is  repulsed. 

"  A  fool  again,"  cried  Franz.  "  A  real  artist  would  look  with 
indifference  upon  all  these  things.  He  would  not  remember  a  by- 
gone grudge  against  a  stupid  old  merchant  for  all  these  years. 
He  would  say,  '  Here  is  my  hand,  old  gentleman,  if  it  is  of  any 
use  to  you ;  but  go  away  now,  for  I  have  my  pictures  to  look 
after.'  He  ought  to  be  above  the  opinions  or  insults  of  a  Philis- 
ter — nicht  wahr,  Silber  ?" 

Silber  started. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  it  is  a  very  good  piece." 

"  I  have  it,"  said  Franz  in  a  whisper.  "  Don't  you  think  that 
Mathilde  there,  with  her  black  eyes  and  hair,  is  something  like 
Fraulein  Riedel  ?" 

There  was  certainly  some  resemblance  between  Fraulein  An- 
schiitz  (to  whom  I  beg  to  pay  a  passing  compliment),  of  the 
Innsbruck  National  theater,  and  Fraulein  Riedel,  of  the  Munich 
Volkstheater. 

"  Silber  is  trying  hard  to  imagine  himself  in  Munich,  and  that 
the  little  Riedel  is  before  him.  Will  he  cry  presently  ?  No  ;  he 
*has  drank  no  beer  this  evening." 

Silber,  however,  applauded  most  boisterously  at  the  end  of  each 
effective  scene  in  which  Mathilde  appeared — so  much  so  that 
Mathilde  inadvertently  glanced  up  at  our  box. 

"  She  thanks  you,  Silber,"  said  Franz ;  "  wouldn't  you  give 
your  ears  now  for  a  bouquet  ?" 

"  She  acts  remarkably  well,"  said  Silber,  hotly. 

"  That  is  no  reason  why  you  should  bite  my  head  off,"  ^aid 
Franz.  "  All  I  know  is  that  her  stage  husband  is  a  prig,  and 
should  have  been  a  lackey  rather  than  an  artist.     Yet  Fels  is  not 


288  KILMENY. 

a  bad  actor ;  and  I  have  seen  many  worse  tlian  Hcrr  Strohl.  I 
will  drink  their  very  good  health,  and  yours,  Silber,  and  that  of 
a  young  lady  who  rather  resembles  Fraulein  Anschiitz,  when  we 
go  out." 

"  Ah,  you  think  she  does  resemble  Fraulein  Riedel  ?"  said  Sil- 
ber, eagerly. 

"  You  do,  at  least ;  for  I  don't  believe  you  know  anything  of 
the  piece.     Now  what  is  the  name  of  Mathilde's  brother  ?" 

"  Stuif  !"  said  Silber,  turning  angrily  away. 

When  Mathilde  had  at  length  effected  a  reconciliation  between 
her  husband  and  her  father  by  means  of  lier  "  doutsches  Frauen- 
herz,"  we  left  the  theatre,  and  proceeded  on  a  prowl  through  the 
town,  visiting  such  places  of  amusement  as  were  still  open  for 
the  benefit  of  the  soldiers.  Now  we  entered  a  gayly-lit  beer- 
garden,  again  we  heard  a  little  music,  and  so  foi'th,  until  Franz, 
who  was  beyond  the  anielioraling  and  controlling  influences  of 
his  zither,  and  who  had  drank  a  little  more  wine  than  was  neces- 
sary, began  to  wax  warm  about  political  matters,  and  generally 
expressed  his  readiness  to  fight  any  man  or  woman  born  in  tlie 
whole  of  the  Tyrolese  capital.  But  the  fit  did  not  last  long;  for 
presently  he  was  off  into  the  dark  streets  again,  singing  some- 
what loudly  the  mad  carnival  song — 

"Alle  Viigele  singet  so  hell, 
Bis  am  Samstig  z'  Obed ; 
Alle  Mcideli  lialtet  mi  gern, 
O !   wie  bill  i  j)loget. 

Niirro ! 
Hidele,  hiidele,  hiiiterm  Stiidtele 
Hilt  en  Betteimiiim   Hotiizit ; 
Es  giget  e  Miisle,  's  tauzet  e  Lausle, 
Es  schlagt  en   Igcie  Trninme; 

Alle  Tiiieile  \v(i  VViuKii  iiond,*  * 

SoUet  /.ur  Iluclizit  Ixiimme! 
NaiTo!" 

When  we  got  home  to  the  hotel  we  found  the  Professor  and 
an  American  gentleman  busily  discussing  the  merits  of  the  vari- 
ous Continental  galleries;  the  Amiricaii  speaking  French  fluently, 
und  with  very  little  intonation. 

We  did  not  stay  long  in  Innsbruck  ;   tlierc  being  little  (beyond 

*   "Alle  Tliicichen,  ilie  Srliwilnze  liaben, 
>Solieii  zur  liochzeii  kommen.  " 


INNSBRUCK.  289 

some  picturesque  street-views)  worthy  of  an  artist's  attention  in 
the  place.  We  followed  the  course  of  the  Inn  to  Jenbach ;  and 
there  we  turned  sharply  to  the  left,  ascending  the  main  street  of 
the  steep  little  village,  and  following  the  road  that  leads  up  and 
over  the  hills  to  the  Achensee.  What  a  strangely  solitary  lake 
this  is,  lying  high  among  the  mountains ;  and  how  beautiful  were 
its  clear  blue  waters  as  we  first  caught  a  sight  of  them,  with  the 
sunlight  lying  over  the  wooded  slopes  that  descend  almost  per- 
pendicularly to  the  shore,  while  a  slight  wind  was  causing  the 
keen  blue  surface  to  ripple  in  lines  of  light.  Our  road  wound 
along  the  right  bank  of  the  lake,  under  the  craggy  rocks,  with 
their  thick  brushwood  and  ferns  ;  but  we  met  no  carriages  on  this 
narrow  path,  for  a  bridge  had  broken  down  some  two  days  before 
on  this  side  of  Scholastica.  The  perfect  stillness  of  the  lake  and 
of  the  solitary  mountains  was  quite  unbroken  ;  and  the  warm  sun- 
light seemed  to  have  hushed  the  animal  and  insect  life  of  the 
woods  into  peace.  Near  the  other  side  of  the  lake  we  could  see 
a  woman  pulling  a  small  boat ;  but  no  sound  was  heard,  as  the 
prow  slowly  divided  the  brilliant  plain  of  blue. 

When  we  got  up  to  this  broken  bridge  we  found  a  carriage 
and  a  pair  of  horses  which  had  been  hired  by  a  party  of  English 
ladies  at  Jenbach.  Not  one  of  the  ladies  could  speak  German ; 
and  they  stood  on  the  road,  having  descended  from  the  carriage, 
blankly  staring  at  the  broken  planks  of  the  bridge,  and  at  the  two 
or  three  swarthy  men  who  were  driving  in  new  piles.  Their 
coachman  was  doing  his  best  (by  much  shouting)  to  let  them 
know  that  there  was  no  help  for  it — back  they  must  go  to  Jen- 
bach. When  I  explained  the  position  of  affairs  to  them,  they 
poured  torrents  of  sarcasm  and  abuse  upon  the  stupidity  of  the 
peasants  who  had  not  sent  on  word  of  the  accident  to  that  vil- 
lage. 

"  The  workmen,"  I  told  them,  "  say  that  for  three  florins  they 
will  patch  the  bridge  together  and  take  your  carriage  over." 

After  a  good  deal  of  bargaining,  they  agreed  to  pay  the  three 
florins ;  but  the  head-workman  was  seized  with  a  fit  of  honesty, 
and  admitted  it  would  be  of  no  use,  as  there  was  another  bridge 
broken  just  beyond  Scholastica. 

"  This  is  a  pretty  country,"  said  one  of  the  ladies,  with  a  sneer. 

*'  There  seems  to  be  nothing  left  for  you  to  do  but  to  return," 
I  said ;  "  so  I  shall  wish  you  good-day  and  a  pleasant  journey." 

N 


290  KILMENY. 

"Oil  no !  pray  don't  leave  us  without  telling  these  men  that — 
that—" 

But  there  was  nothing  to  tell  them.  Abuse  of  the  Tyrol  and 
the  Tyrolese  generally  was  a  communication  which  it  was  quite 
unnecessary  to  make  to  the  poor  bridge-makers,  who  had  again 
betaken  themselves  to  their  labors. 

"  May  I  ask  where  you  were  going  to  ?" 

"  To  Munich,  of  course.  Here  is  our  contract,  written  in  French, 
made  with  that  rascal  in  Jenbach,  who  kneio  the  bridge  was  broken 
down." 

The  speaker  was  one  of  those  tall,  solitary -looking  ladies  who 
are  constantly  seen  in  Continental  hotels,  and  who  go  wandering 
about  Europe  with  a  charming  belief  in  the  omnipotence  of  the 
English  tongue,  and  a  fine  contempt  for  the  manners  and  customs 
of  the  people  whom  they  deign  to  visit. 

"  Then  you  must  go  back  to  Jenbach,  and  proceed  from  thence 
by  rail  to  Rosenheim  and  Munich ;  or  you  can  wait  at  Jenbach 
until  the  bridge  is  ready,  probably  by  Monday  next." 

So  saying,  we  went  on  our  way,  and  saw  them  no  more.  But 
I  do  not  envy  the  innkeeper  at  Jenbach  when  they  returned  to 
him — that  is,  if  he  could  understand  either  French  or  English. 


CHAPTER  XXXni. 

HE  ATHK  RLKI  G  h's     FEAT. 


Once  more  in  the  quiet  and  white  Kiinigin  Strasse,  fronting  the 
yellowing  trees  of  the  Englischer  Garten.  Munich  looked  quite 
liomely  when  we  returned  to  it.  But  I  went  into  its  formal  and 
stately  streets  without  much  hope  of  meeting  there  any  welcome 
faces,  such  as  I  used  to  look  for  in  leaving  Lt)ndon  to  get  down 
into  the  heart  of  Buridiam.  Nevertheless,  it  was  a  sort  of  home ; 
and  we  were  glad  to  see  again  the  familiar  features  of  the  Odeon- 
platz  and  the  Maxiniilian  Strasse. 

The  good  Professor  returned  with  a  sigh  to  his  labors  and  liis 
domestic  routine.  His  homely  wife  kissed  him  dutifully,  in  a 
quiet,  atfeetionate  way,  and  then  began  to  tell  him,  in  an  injured 
tone,  of  the  interference  of  the  Herren  Polizei  about  something  or 


heatherleigh's  feat.  291 

other.  The  Professor  listened  meekly,  and  then  suggested  that 
we  should  have  a  little  chocolate. 

Lena  was,  for  a  wonder,  gracious,  Franz  having  brought  her  a 
very  pretty  brooch  from  Innsbruck.  Instead  of  being  impudent 
and  coquettish,  she  was  shy  and  demure ;  and  I  think  if  Franz  had 
taken  advantage  of  her  whim  of  complaisance  to  ask  her  for  a  tiny 
kiss,  she  would  not  have  minded  much. 

"  You  have  been  working  hard,  Mr.  Frank  ?"  she  asked. 

"  We  have  all  been  working  hard,  Lena,"  returned  her  lover.    . 

"  You  will  let  me  see  your  sketches,  won't  you  ?" 

Franz  was  overjoyed  to  find  Lena  caring  a  pin-point  about  any- 
thing he  did ;  and  he  promised  not  only  to  show  her  his  sketches, 
but  to  finish  up  any  she  liked,  and  present  them  to  her. 

"  You  have  been  very  wicked  in  your  letters  since  I  went  away, 
Lena,"  he  said. 

"  Why,  then  ?"  she  asked,  elevating  her  eyebrows  with  a  pretty 
look  of  wonder. 

"  You  know." 

"  I  know  I  wrote  to  you  ;  isn't  that  enough  ?  You  should  be 
glad  to  have  my  letters,  even  if  there  was  nothing  but  nonsense 
in  them." 

"  That  is  just  what  was  in  them." 

"  Oh,  indeed !" 

This  with  a  pout. 

"  If  I  only  wrote  nonsense,  you  shall  have  no  more  of  it." 

Franz  began  to  look  apprehensive. 

"  Lena !— " 

"  Oh,  I  can  only  talk  nonsense.  Very  well.  But  you  like  my 
nonsense,  don't  you,  Herr  Papaken?" 

With  that  she  went  and  hung  around  the  Herr  Papa's  neck,  and 
toyed  with  his  neckerchief. 

"  What  is  it,  Lena  ?" 

"  You  will  be  my  sweetheart,  Papaken,  and  you  won't  mind  my 
talking  nonsense,  will  yon?  Travelling  doesn't  improve  one's 
temper,  does  it,  Papaken?  and  people  think  they  have  grown 
wise  when  they  go  abroad,  and  come  back  savage  and  intolerable. 
But  you  are  always  the  same,  Papaken,  and  I  don't  want  anybody 
but  you." 

Franz  became  angry.     He  did  not  like  being  talked  at. 

"Herr  Professor,"  said  he,  "did  you  ever  know  a  cat  that 


292  KILMENY. 

stroked  herself  the  wrong  way  in  order  to  liave  an  excuse  for 
scratching  you  ?" 

"  Oh,  I  am  a  cat,"  said  Lena,  with  a  scornful  toss  of  the  small 
and  pretty  head.  "  Mr.  Frank,  you  will  beg  my  pardon  before  I 
see  you  again." 

And  so  she  left  the  room,  leaving  Franz  the  victim  of  a  deadly 
remorse.  It  was  all  the  work  of  a  few  careless  words  ;  and  yet  the 
mischief  they  had  caused  was  sufficiently  portentous  to  a  lover. 

"On  the  very  day  of  our  return,  too!"  he  said.  "She  is  no 
better  than  a  tigress  or  a  Red  Indian." 

Heatherleigh's  letter  had  been  sent  to  Munich  instead  of  Inns- 
bruck.    It  ran  in  this  way  : 

"  Dear  Ted, — Did  you  ever  try  to  break  tlie  back  of  a  woman's 
opinion,  and  find  yourself  thrashing  the  air?  I  think  the  most 
vexing  thing  for  a  man  is  to  prove  triumphantly  to  a  woman  that 
she  ought  not  to  believe  so-and-so  and  so-and-so,  and  find,  after 
all,  that  the  impalpable  thing  he  fancied  he  had  destroyed  is  as 
brisk  and  lively  as  ever.  With  a  woman  you  don't  care  about,  it 
doesn't  matter.  You  leave  her  in  her '  invincible  ignorance.'  But 
to  find  yourself  baffled  and  tortured  and  vexed  by  this  invisible, 
insignificant  thing  called  an  opinion,  when  the  interests  of  one 
you  love  are  concerned,  is  a  grievous  thing,  not  easily  to  be 
borne. 

"  At  last  I  met  Polly.  I  knew  I  should,  sooner  or  later  ;  for  I 
watched  for  her  whenever  I  had  the  time.  It  was  yesterday  fore- 
noon, and  I  was  going  around  by  Gloucester  Gate.  She  saw  me 
at  some  distance  off,  and  tried  to  avoid  mc ;  but  that  wjis  of  no  use. 
When  I  went  up  and  spoke  to  her,  she  was  very  much  excited; 
and  her  excitement  took  the  form  of  a  i)rodigious  freezing  con- 
straint, that  made  her  look  like  a  frightened  wild  bird,  lying  still, 
but  watching  how  to  escai)e  from  your  hand. 

"  '  Polly,'  said  I,  '  we  didn't  use  to  meet  like  this?' 

"  '  It  is  all  the  greater  i)ity  we  should  meet  like  this  now,'  she 
said  hurriedly.  '  Jiut  it  can't  be  heii>ed,  Mr.  lleatlierleigh  ;  and 
if  you'll  be  good  enough — ' 

"'To  go  away  and  leave  you,  I'olly^'  I  said.  'No;  I  don't 
mean  to  do  anything  of  the  kind.      And  all  this  ca)i  be  helped.' 

"So  I  went  on  to  tell  her  what  nonsense  her  ri'cent  condm-t 
had  been  ;  and  how  foolish  she  was  to  regard  what  my  father  had 


heatherleigh's  feat.  293 

said.  This  was  evidently  a  sore  point  witli  the  poor  girl ;  for 
you  may  recollect  she  was  driven  by  her  strong  pride  and  indig- 
nation to  take  it  for  granted,  without  my  mentioning  her  name, 
that  it  was  she  I  meant  to  marry.  No  girl  would  like  to  be  en- 
trapped into  such  a  confession,  and  with  her  I  could  see  that  the 
reflection  was  excessively  painful.  But  then  I  urged  upon  her 
the  necessity  of  sinking  all  these  considerations,  every  considera- 
tion except  one — that  here  were  we  two,  almost  alone  in  London, 
and  that  the  best  thing  we  could  do  was  to  marry,  and  keep  our 
own  counsel,  and  let  our  exceedingly  respected  relatives,  on  both 
sides,  pass  such  comments  as  their  lively  wit  might  suggest. 

"You  may  fancy  this  a  very  matter-of-fact  way  of  putting  it. 
But  then  I  had  to  treat  the  sensitive  malady  of  poor  Polly  in  a 
somewhat  heroic  fashion,  and  assume  a  mastery  that  I  did  not 
feel.  What  were  my  sensations?  Here  was  I — a  man  drawing 
on  towards  middle-life,  looking  upon  myself  as  a  sort  of  widower, 
indeed — with  few  friends,  with  a  liking  for  domestic  quiet  and 
comfort,  and  with  a  disposition  sufficiently  amiable,  I  hope,  to 
keep  on  good  terms  with  an  affectionate  companion ;  here  was 
she,  alone  in  London,  unfriended,  with  nobody  to  look  to  for  as- 
sistance in  case  of  need.  Why  shouldn't  we  two  outcasts  join 
our  fortunes,  and  be  stronger  through  mutual  help  ?  There  never 
was  a  marriage  more  reasonable  in  point  of  circumstances ;  to 
say  nothing  of  the  affection  that  leads  you  to  think  any  marriage 
reasonable. 

"  All  this  and  more  I  represented  to  her ;  and  still  found  my- 
self fighting  with  my  invisible  enemy  of  an  opinion,  or  determina- 
tion, or  something  of  the  kind  that  lay  behind  the  unnatural  hard- 
ness of  her  look  and  coldness  of  her  voice.  What  was  I  to  do  ? 
We  had  got  around  into  the  Park,  by  the  trees  above  the  canal ; 
and  there  was  scarcely  anybody  there  at  this  hour  of  the  fore- 
noon. I  preached,  I  prayed,  I  begged,  all  in  vain.  She  was  as 
obdurate  as  marble.  She  admitted  all  my  arguments ;  and  then 
merely  said  that  what  I  asked  was  impossible,  that  she  and  I  never 
could  marry,  that  we  ought  to  separate  then  and  forever. 

"  I  made  one  more  vexed  endeavor  to  bring  her  to  reason  ;  and 
then,  that  not  succeeding,  I  think  I  was  seized  with  a  sort  of 
madness — a  long  and  happy  future  for  both  of  us  seemed  to 
dance  before  my  eyes — I  caught  her  unawares,  and,  with  a  laugh 
that  must  have  sounded  like  the  laugh  of  a  maniac,  kissed  her. 


294  KILMENY. 

She  turned  around,  white  and  angry ;  and  then,  seeing  that  I  wa^^ 
laughing  in  desperation,  all  her  resolve  seemed  gradually  to  break 
away,  until  at  last  she  laughed  too,  in  her  old  frank  way,  and  held 
out  both  her  hands. 

" '  I  cannot  help  myself,  I  suppose,'  she  said. 

"Was  there  ever  a  courtship)  like  that,  Ted,  in  the  open  air,  in 
the  forenoon,  in  Regent's  Park  ?  Now,  when  I  look  back  upon  it, 
I  ask  myself  if  I  was  temporarily  insane  :  whether  or  not,  the  re- 
sult remains,  and  we  arc  both  happy. 

"  '  Now,'  said  I  to  Polly,  '  let  me  show  you  that  you  have  not 
agreed  to  marry  a  boy,  who  will  neither  know  how  to  work  for 
you,  nor  master  you  in  your  sulky  fits,  nor  make  you  take  good 
care  of  your  health.  I  am  about  to  become  rich.  I  have  a 
grand  scheme  to  make  our  fortune,  Polly.' 

"  '  What  is  it  ?'  she  asked. 

"  '  A  company  that  shall  produce  something  out  of  nothing,  and 
alter  the  whole  of  our  commercial  relations  with  India  and  China. 
This  company  will  contract  to  buy  up  on  the  Monday  morning  of 
each  week  all  the  sermons  which  have  been  preached  on  tlie  pre- 
ceding Sunday.  From  all  parts  of  the  kingdom  the  various  MSS. 
must  be  sent  in  and  collected  in  the  works  of  the  company  at 
Mill  wall.     That  is  the  first  step.' 

"  '  Yes,'  she  said,  very  much  interested,  apparently. 

"  '  These  sermons  are  now  taken  and  put  into  vast  caldrons, 
which  are  in  communication  with  all  the  ordinary  apparatus  of  a 
distillery.  In  fact,  the  sermons  arc  to  be  distilled  ;  and  the  product, 
which  is  to  make  our  fortune,  Polly,  is — ' 

"  '  What  V  she  asked. 

" '  Opium.' 

"  She  looked  vexed. 

"'You  have  just  done  the  most  serious  thing  you  ever  did  in 
your  life,  and  you  fall  to  joking  already.' 

" '  My  dear,'  said  I,  '  I  prf>pose  to  have  our  engagement,  and 
our  married  life  too,  a  jirolongcMl  joke.  People  make  these  things 
serious,  because  they  grow  afraid.  We  shall  not  grow  afraid,  you 
and  I  ;  and  we  will  carry  on  the  joke  from  day  to  day,  until,  when 
we  have  grown  old  and  white-haired,  we  sliall  look  back  and  see 
that  we  have  spent  life  pleasantly  and  enjoyed  it  rationally.  They 
will  tell  you  it  is  very  wrong  to  talk  confidently  about  coming 
liajjpiness,  and  to  be  so  sure  that  life  is  going  to  be  pleasant;  but 


heatherleigh's  feat.  295 

isn't  it  better  than  to  be  continually  foreboding  evil  and  making 
yourself  wretched  by  anticipation  ?  If  the  evil  must  come,  let  it : 
we  sha'n't  whimper  like  children,  Polly.  In  the  mean  time  you 
and  I  will  take  such  enjoyment  and  comfort  as  we  can  get ;  for 
we  shall  never  be  twice  young.' 

"  You,  Ted,  know  what  I  think  about  such  things ;  but  I 
preached  in  this  fashion  to  give  my  poor,  trembling  Polly  a  little 
courage.  She  looked  happy  and  comfortable  in  a  quiet,  timorous 
way ;  and  seemed  to  have  grown  all  at  once  trustful  and  docile 
and  affectionate.  Immediately,  too,  she  instituted  a  sort  of  right 
of  property  in  me,  and  timidly  begged  of  me  to  promise  never  to 
go  out  any  more  at  night  with  my  throat  bare — a  thing  she  used 
always  to  protest  against.  Her  remembrance  of  it  just  at  this 
moment  made  me  laugh  heartily,  and  she  looked  a  little  self-con- 
scious and  shy,  as  if  I  had  taken  advantage  of  her  confidence. 
There  was  something  so  odd  in  the  notion  that  there  was  now  a 
little  woman  to  see  that  I  must  not  catch  cold  or  otherwise  harm 
myself,  that  I  felt  myself  vastly  exalted  in  my  own  estimation,  and 
ready  to  look  down  with  a  wonderful  compassion  on  you  poor 
fellows  who  are  fighting  the  world  all  by  yourselves. 

"  Do  I  rave  ?  Am  I  sane  ?  I  scarcely  know.  Your  mother 
tries  to  make  the  affair  wear  a  serious  aspect,  and  fails  wholly. 
I  cannot  get  frightened  at  the  notion  of  taking  a  house.  A  par- 
ish-clerk is  not  an  awful  creature  to  me,  as  he  ought  to  be.  The 
cares  of  furniture  sit  lightly  upon  me ;  for  I  know  that  Polly  and 
I  won't  break  our  hearts  if  a  saucepan  is  wanting,  or  there  happen 
to  be  no  salt-spoons  with  the  breakfast-service.  I  have  no  heavy 
sense  of  responsibility  whatever ;  and  I  ask  myself  whether  my 
want  of  anxiety  is  a  proof  that  I  am  not  fitted  to  encounter  the 
solemnities  of  a  married  life.  Gray  hairs  will  come  soon  enough, 
Ted ;  and  I  don't  look  out  for  them  every  morning  in  the  glass." 

The  rest  of  the  letter  contained  lots  of  gossip  about  our  old 
companions  in  the  neighborhood  of  Fitzroy  Square,  and  their  do- 
ings. But  through  all  the  letter  there  breathed  the  same  auda- 
cious trust  and  gladness  that  showed  how  Heatherleigh's  life  had 
been  stirred  by  these  new  experiences.  Yet  even  in  his  joy  there 
was  the  same  wise  and  kindly  spirit  that  had  drawn  me  towards 
him  in  his  indolent  bachelor  days. 

Two  days  later  came  a  letter  from  Polly  herself.  She  hinted 
timidly  that  Mr.  Heathcrleigh  had  told  me  what  had  occurred ; 


296  KILMENY. 

and  then  began  to  talk  of  other  things  in  a  practical,  constrained 
sort  of  fashion.  But  again  and  again  she  returned  inadvertently 
to  Heatherleigh,  and  his  doings  and  prospects,  and  spoke  of  him 
with  a  pride  which  she  did  her  best  to  conceal.  Polly  used  to 
have  a  pretty  correct  notion  of  Heatherleigh's  capacity  as  an  art- 
ist— indeed,  he  had  frankly  told  her  the  limits  within  which  he 
knew  he  should  always  work  ;  but  now  all  these  things  were 
changed.  Mr.  Heatherleigh  was  to  wake  up  from  his  indolence 
and  do  something  great.  The  public  were  getting  tired  of  the  com- 
monplace work  of  many  of  the  R.  A.'s ;  it  was  necessary  that  the 
august  body  should  get  some  new  blood  into  it.  And  Polly  en- 
closed me  a  cutting  from  a  newspaper,  in  which  a  picture  of 
Heatherleigh's  was  praised  in  unequivocal  terms. 

When  was  I  coming  home  ?  she  asked.  I  was  wanted  to  make 
up  again  the  little  Bohemian  supper-parties  that  were  so  comfort- 
able and  jolly  in  the  old  days.  I  translated  these  words  into  a 
wish  on  the  part  of  Polly  that  I  should  see  her  in  the  full  honor 
and  joy  of  her  new  position,  and  that  I  might  share  some  of  her  . 
superabundant  happiness. 

In  the  mean  time  there  was  little  chance  of  my  congratulating 
in  person  these  two  who  had,  in  spite  of  the  world  and  the  devil, 
achieved  some  measure  of  happiness  amid  the  discordant  interests 
of  life.  I  feared  to  go  to  England.  Should  I  not  meet  there  with 
the  old  hopeless  feeling,  and  know  that  Hester  Burnham  was  as 
far  removed  from  me  as  a  star  might  be  ?  Hear  she  was  nearer 
to  me.  In  England  I  should  find  her  about  to  marry  her  pale- 
faced  cousin,  with  the  mean  heart  and  the  cold  eyes;  here  I  grew 
bold,  and  believed  such  a  thing  impossible. 

»So  I  turned  with  diligent  labor  to  the  picture  of  Wolundur 
and  the  king's  daughter  in  the  lonely  northern  island ;  and  as  I 
worked  at  it,  on  those  days  which  were  not  devoted  to  class- 
studies,  I  knew  that  she  would  see  it  in  some  far-off  time.  So 
the  months  passed,  and  the  new  year  came  in,  and  the  spring- 
time, and  there  was  a  breath  of  primroses  and  sweet  violets  in 
the  air  that  seemed  to  speak  of  the  green  hedges  and  tlic  leafy 
woods  of  Burnham. 


AT    BURNHAM    GATES.  297 


CHAPTER   XXXIV. 

AT    BURNHAM    GATES. 

My  private  studio  was  my  bedroom,  and  it  looked  out  upon 
the  Konigin  Strasse  and  the  trees  of  the  "  English  Garden." 
While  the  trees  were  leafless,  and  even  now  when  they  showed 
only  the  young  leaves  of  the  spring,  you  could  look  over  the  park- 
like meadows  that  lie  within  the  garden,  and  you  could  see  the 
few  people  who  occasionally  strolled  across  this  open  space  to  the 
paths  under  the  chestnuts  and  limes.  It  was  here,  somehow  or 
other,  that  I  felt  convinced  that  I  should  see  Hester  Burnham. 
Many  and  many  a  time  I  have  looked  out  of  the  small  window, 
with  almost  a  definite  anticipation  of  beholding  the  figure  and 
the  dress  I  knew  so  well  coming  out  from  under  the  trees.  Many 
a  time  have  I  started  to  observe  in  the  distance  some  lady  who 
might  be  she,  and  wait,  with  a  strange,  joyous  wonder,  to  see 
whether  the  figure  would  approach  with  that  dainty  and  queenly 
gait  which  was  peculiar  to  her  of  all  the  women  in  the  world. 
The  successive  disappearance  of  these  possibilities  was  scarcely  a 
disappointment,  and  was  certainly  not  a  misery  ;  for  I  got  to  con- 
nect the  English  Garden  with  her  so  completely  that  it  looked 
like  a  bit  of  friendly  Buckinghamshire  that  had  wandered  into 
this  foreign  land. 

Spring  came  upon  us  suddenly.  One  morning  I  awoke  to  find 
a  new  freshness  in  the  air — a  mild,  warm  gratefulness  that  seemed 
filled  with  the  perfume  of  opening  buds.  As  it  happened,  Franz 
and  I  were  invited  on  that  day  to  be  introduced  to  Fraulein  Rie- 
del,  that  young  lady  having  graciously  signified  to  her  lover  that 
she  should  like  to  see  the  two  friends  of  whom  he  frequently 
spoke. 

We  were  to  meet  Silber  and  her  in  the  Neue  Anlagen,  just 
under  Haidhausen ;  and  here  it  was,  among  the  leafy  labyrinths 
of  the  pleasure-ground,  that  we  encountered  the  happy  pair. 
The  little  actress,  with  the  shining  black  eyes  and  hair,  received 
us  without  any  show  of  embarrassment,  such  as  sat  upon  the 

N  2 


298  KILMENY. 

concerned  and  delighted  and  stupid  face  of  her  companion.  She 
walked  on  with  us,  and  immediately  began,  in  a  matter-of-fact 
way,  to  ask  whether  it  were  difficult  to  learn  English  thoroughly, 
and  whether  they  paid  actresses  well  in  England. 

"  But  you  don't  need  to  learn  English  thoroughly,  Fraulein,"  I 
told  her,  "  to  appear  on  an  English  stage.  We  like  a  marked 
foreign  pronunciation,  because  it  harmonizes  with  the  origin  and 
character  of  our  plays.  As  to  salary,  I  don't  know  much  about 
that ;  but  a  great  many  of  our  actresses  wear  most  expensive  jew- 
els, on  the  stage  and  off." 

"  Do  you  always  have  your  operettas  translated  into  English  ?" 

"  Generally." 

"  What  do  they  pay  the  principal  lady  ?" 

The  tone  of  this  conversation  did  not  seem  to  please  poor  Sil- 
ber.  He  endeavored  to  divert  her  attention  from  such  mercenary 
matters ;  but  she  kept  firmly  to  her  point,  and  showed  herself  a 
thorough  little  woman  of  business.  Perhaps  Silber  was  the  more 
annoyed  because  her  talk  evidently  left  him  outside  of  all  her  plans 
of  the  future.  She  seemed  to  say  that  there  could  be  no  ques- 
tion of  marriage  between  a  not  over-rich  student  and  this  brisk 
young  actress,  who  had  an  eye  to  lucrative  engagements  in  Eng- 
land. 

At  length  we  bade  them  good-bye,  and  received,  on  parting,  a 
kindly  invitation  to  take  tea  with  the  Fraulein  and  her  mamma 
some  day  on  the  following  week.  Franz  and  I  went  off  towards 
Brunnthal,  and  then  crossed  the  Isar  and  went  up  by  Ludwig's- 
Walzmiihle.  The  air,  as  I  said,  had  grown  suddenly  sweet  with  the 
[u-omise  of  the  spring;  and  there  seemed  to  be  a  joyous,  stirring 
life  in  the  trees  and  in  the  warm,  moist  ground.  I  knew  what 
Burnhain  would  be  like  then  ;  and  I  could  see  the  green  valley 
before  my  eyes,  steeped  in  the  clear  spring  sunshine. 

"  Franz,"  said  I,  "  will  you  start  with  me  at  six  o'clock  for 
F^ngland?  We  shall  travel  day  and  night;  then  I  will  show  you 
an  E^nglish  valley  in  spring-time,  that  is  finer  than  anything  you 
ever  read  of  in  an  E;istern  story  ;  and  we  shall  come  straight  back 
again,  without  anybody  in  England  knowing  anything  about  it." 

"  You  take  my  breath  away — England — six  o'clock  this  even- 
ing— and  the  expense — " 

"  I  invite  you  to  go  as  my  guest.  I  have  bccoine  rich  to-day. 
A  gentleman  in  England  has  heard  of  this  Wolundur  picture  from 


AT    BURNHAM    GATES.  299 

the  Professor,  and  I  liad  a  letter  this  morning  from  him,  offering 
a  handsome  sum  for  it.  Shall  we  go  at  six  o'clock,  and  be  back 
in  a  week  ?" 

"  I  have  nothing  ready  for  such  a  journey." 

"  Why,  an  old  traveller  like  you  should  be  able  to  pack  up  in 
ten  minutes  for  a  voyage  to  Lebanon." 

We  walked  back  to  the  town.  I  got  him  to  have  some  dinner 
at  the  "  Four  Seasons,"  and  this  gave  him  courage.  We  went 
over  to  the  Konigin  Strasse,  and  bade  good-bye  to  the  Professor 
and  his  family. 

"  Why  do  you  look  afraid,  Linele  ?"  said  Franz.  "  It  is  only 
a  bit  of  fun.     We  shall  be  back  in  two  or  three  days." 

"  You  may  be  drowned,"  said  Lena,  with  tender  and  troubled 
eyes. 

"  Do  you  know  why  we  are  going  ?  Listen  1"  said  Franz,  and 
he  whispered  something  mto  Lena's  ear. 

Lena  looked  at  me,  and  smiled  and  nodded. 

"Then  I  will  let  you  go,"  she  said  to  Franz.  "  Leb'  wohl! 
Don't  be  longer  than  a  week,  Franz.     Ade !" 

We  started  at  six.  By  eleven  next  morning  we  were  in  Cologne. 
Thence  a  rapid  journey  brought  us  over  Brussels  to  Calais ;  and 
at  length  I  heard  a  fine  round  English  oath,  that  told  me  I  was 
in  my  native  land. 

We  went  to  the  Langham  Hotel  when  we  arrived  in  London, 
and  there  Franz  speedily  became  familiar  with  all  the  waiters  who 
could  speak  German. 

"  I  have  brought  you  here,"  I  said,  "  that  you  may  study  Amer- 
ican manners  and  customs,  without  going  to  America.  Breakfast 
and  dine  for  a  day  or  two  in  that  big  room  with  the  pillars,  and 
you  may  save  yourself  the  expense  of  a  trip  to  New  York." 

"  These  are  not  English,  then — these  pretty  girls,  with  the 
French  fashions,  who  talk  loudly  across  the  table,  and  have  at 
sixteen  the  manner  of  a  woman  of  thirty  ?" 

You  will  soon  see  the  diflference.  Perhaps  you  will  prefer  the 
American  type." 

"  If  they  are  all  as  pretty  as  these  girls  I  shall  have  no  choice. 
Surely  we  have  made  a  mistake,  and  come  to  Sachsen,  too  die 
schonen  Mddchen  ivachsen.  But  the  Leipsic  and  Dresden  girls 
are  fair." 

We  spent  a  day  in  London,  hiring  a  hansom  for  the  entire 


300  KILMENV. 

time,  and  driving  about  to  such  places  as  Franz  wished  to  see. 
London,  I  think,  was  as  new  and  delightful  to  me  as  to  him.  It 
was  so  pleasant  an  experience  to  be  able  to  understand  everything 
that  everybody  said,  without  having  to  listen"  particularly ;  and  it 
was  pleasant,  also,  to  feel  an  easy  familiarity  with  the  customs  of 
the  place,  even  while  the  very  streets,  that  were  once  so  well- 
known,  seemed  to  have  assumed  an  oddly  unaccustomed  appear- 
ance. Then,  on  the  following  day,  we  got  on  the  top  of  the 
Buckinghamshire  coach,  and  drove  away  from  the  city  bustle  and 
noise. 

I  was  proud  of  my  native  county  when  we  saw  it,  then  in  all 
its  spring  greenery.  The  young  hawthorn  was  out  in  the  hedges, 
the  chestnut-buds  were  bursting,  the  elms  were  sprinkled  over 
with  leaves ;  and  the  windy  clouds  that  crossed  the  blue  spring 
sky  gave  to  the  far-off  woods  and  hills  a  constant  motion  of  shad- 
ow and  sunlight  that  created  landscapes  at  every  step.  We  drove 
down  through  the  old-fashioned  villages  —  Chalfont,  with  its 
stream  crossing  the  main  road ;  Amersham,  with  its  broad  street 
and  twin  rows  of  quaint,  old,  red-brick  liouses ;  Missenden,  with 
its  ancient  abbey,  and  church  high  up  on  the  hill ;  and  then  we 
found  ourselves  in  the  valley  that  looks  up  to  Burnham. 

1  took  Franz  up  and  over  the  chalk-hills,  and  through  the  woods 
that  were  now  growing  rich  with  flowers.  These  were  a  wonder 
to  him — the  wildernesses  of  wild  hyacinth,  a  lambent  blue;  tlie 
pale,  blush-tinted  anemone,  the  pink-veinod  wood-sorrel,  the  tiny 
moschatel,  the  dark  dog's-mercury,  the  golden  celandiiu^ ;  and 
everywhere  the  perfume  of  the  sweet  violet,  clustered  among  its 
heart-shaped  leaves,  along  the  rabbit-banks  and  around  the  roots 
of  the  trees.  The  constant  animal  life,  also — tlie  ruddy  squirrel 
running  up  the  straight  stem  of  a  young  1>eech,  the  disappearance 
of  a  rabl)it  into  the  brambles  of  a  chalk-doll,  the  silent  flight  of  a 
iiare  across  the  broad  fields  to  some  distant  place  of  safety,  the 
sudden  whirr  of  a  cock-pheasant,  and  the  incessant  screaming  of 
jays;  while  all  around  were  the  busy  tom-tits  and  thrushes  and 
blackbirds,  with  a  glimpse  of  a  golden-crested  wren  h<)})ping  from 
bush  to  bush,  or  a  kestrel  hanging  high  up  in  the  blue,  his  wings 
motionless.  Over  all  these,  again,  the  light  and  motion  of  a 
breezy  English  sky,  with  cumulus  masses  of  white  cloud  that  chased 
the  sunlight  over  the  Ibiruliam  woods,  or  hid  the  distant  horizon 
in  dark  lines  of  an  intense  purple. 


AT    BURNHAM    GATES.  301 

"  That  is  the  house  you  have  told  me  about,"  said  Franz,  as  we 
descended  into  the  valley  again,  and  drew  near  Burnham.  "  I 
recognize  it.  How  fine  it  looks,  with  the  great  avenue  and  the 
trees!     You  said  a  young  lady  owned  it — who  is  she?" 

I  heard  the  cantering  of  two  horses  on  the  road  behind  me, 
and  turned. 

"  Franz !"  I  cried,  "  jump  into  the  wood  here :  she  must  not 
see  us !" 

It  was  too  late.  She  came  along  at  a  good  pace  on  a  handsome 
small  horse,  followed  by  old  Pritchett  on  the  black  cob  I  had 
ridden  many  a  time.  I  pulled  my  slouched  hat  over  my  face ; 
with  our  heavy  German  travelling-cloaks  it  was  not  likely  she 
would  suspect  either  of  us  of  being  English.  As  she  passed,  I  was 
aware  that  she  looked  at  us  somewhat  curiously ;  and  then  she 
went  on.  I  could  look  at  her  with  safety  as  she  rode  up  the  soft, 
elastic  turf  of  the  avenue.  I  saw  her  once  more  ! — with  the  clear, 
white  spring  sunlight  on  her  cheek  and  on  her  brown  hair,  that 
the  wind  lifted  and  flung  about  her  neck  and  shoulders.  I  knew 
she  was  there ;  and  yet  it  seemed  I  was  scarcely  more  aware  of 
her  presence  than  if  it  had  been  a  dream.  For  I  had  been  accus- 
tomed to  see  her  in  dreams  with  such  a  vividness  that  now,  in 
actual  life,  she  scarcely  seemed  more  real. 

And  was  not  this  a  dream?  Our  rapid  flight  from  Germany 
had  been  so  sudden  that  now  I  almost  feared  to  turn  my  eyes, 
lest  I  should  awake  and  find  myself  among  the  white  houses  of 
Munich.  Yet  surely  this  was  a  thoroughly  English  scene  before 
me — the  grand  old  house,  silent  amid  its  great  trees,  and  the 
young  English  girl  riding  up  to  it,  under  that  windy  English  sky. 
You  might  have  fancied  it  was  in  the  sixteenth  century,  all  this 
picture ;  and  that  presently  the  gay  young  lover  would  appear, 

singing — 

"  Now,  Robin,  lend  to  me  thy  bow, 
Sweet  Robin,  lend  to  me  thy  bow, 
For  I  must  now  a  hunting  with  my  lady  go, 
With  my  sweet  lady  go!" 

*'  I  am  right,"  exclaimed  Franz,  suddenly.  "  I  have  seen  her 
before ;  it  is  the  face  hanging  up  in  your  room,  in  the  Professor's 
house." 

"  There  is  nothing  to  wonder  at,  is  there  ?"  I  asked.  "  I  have 
seen  this  lady  several  times — I  have  spoken  to  her — " 


302  KILMENV. 

"  And  why  don't  you  now  go  up  to  the  house,  and  renew  your 
acquaintance  with  her?" 

"  Because  we  are  in  England,  Franz." 

So  we  stood  at  the  white  gate  and  looked  up  towards  Burn- 
ham  ;  and  I  could  not  go  away.  When  should  I  ever  see  it  again, 
and  all  the  trees  that  I  knew  ?  As  we  lingered  there,  some  one 
came  riding  down  the  avenue.  It  was  Pritchett.  I  knew  the  old 
man  could  not  possibly  recognize  me,  so  I  still  remained  there ; 
but  when  he  came  down  to  the  gate,  he  pulled  up  the  cob,  and 
said — 

"  Beg  your  pahrdon,  gentlemen,  but  you  be  furreigners,  hain't 
ye?" 

"  Yes,"  I  said,  "  we  have  just  come  from  Germany." 

"  Ah,  that  wur  what  she  said,"  he  muttered  to  himself.  "  Miss 
Buruham's  compliments,  and  if  so  be  as  you'd  like  to  go  over  the 
house  and  look  at  the  pictures,  you  may." 

"  Will  you  say  to  Miss  Burnham  that  we  are  very  much  obliged 
to  her,  but  that  we  could  not  think  of  intruding  upon  her,  since 
the  family  is  at  home  ?" 

"  Lor  bless  ye,  the  family  is  only — " 

"  Herself,"  he  was  nearly  saying ;  but  probably  thinking  that 
such  an  admission  would  lessen  the  grandeur  of  Burnham  in  the 
eyes  of  the  foreigners,  he  muttered  something  about  our  being 
welcome,  if  we  chose  to  visit  the  house,  and  then  rode  off. 

I  translated  all  this  to  Franz,  ^ 

"  Such  complaisance  to  foreigners  is  quite  remarkable,"  he  said. 
"  You  have  no  right,  I  think,  to  speak  of  English  pride,  stiffness, 
title-worship,  and  what  not,  when  a  grand  lady  like  that  goes  out 
of  her  way  to  be  civil  to  two  wandering  German  students,  whom 
she  finds  hanging  about  her  gates." 

"  But  one  swallow  does  not  make  a  summer,  Franz." 

So  we  turned  away. 

"  Where  are  we  going  now  ?"  said  Franz. 

"  Anywhere  you  like.  If  you  would  ratlier  stay  a  few  days 
longer  in  England,  and  see  some  of  our  shipping-towns,  I  will 
go  with  you  with  pleasure."  ' 

"That  means,"  said  Franz,  with  deliberation,  "that  you  came 
over  all  the  way  from  Munich  to  England  just  to  catch  one  glimpse 
of  that  girl's  face.  Perhaps  you  will  now  deny  that  you  are  in 
love  with  her  T' 


AT    BURNHAM    GATES.  303 

"  Deny  it  ?  Oh  no.  That  is  the  very  joke  of  the  position, 
that  I  am  in  love  with  her.  Don't  you  see  what  a  merry  jest  it 
is?" 

"  I  see  that  you  don't  laugh  much  over  it,"  said  Franz,  bluntly. 

"Perhaps  not;  a  few  days  ago,  in  Germany,  I  fancied  that  I 
should  marry  that  lady  some  day.  It  is  a  possibility  that  has 
hung  before  me  for  a  long  time.  Now  I  see  it  is  no  longer  a 
possibility.  I  was  dreaming  in  Germany  :  a  breath  of  our  English 
air  has  woke  me  out  of  the  trance." 

"  But  why  ?  but  why  ?"  said  Franz. 

"  You  are  a  German,  and  you  cannot  understand  it.  One  of 
our  statesmen  has  said  that  there  are  two  nations  in  England — 
the  rich  and  the  poor !  she  belongs  to  the  one,  I  to  the  other ; 
and  in  England  for  a  lady  of  her  position  to  forget  herself,  and 
what  is  due  to  her  friends —     Bah  !  why  speak  any  more  of  it  ?" 

"  My  dear  friend,"  said  Franz,  "  I  don't  think  you  can  express 
yourself  properly  in  German  yet ;  for  I  cannot  make  any  sense 
out  of  what  you  say.  You  seem  to  forget  the  dignity  of  love  and 
of  art.  If  the  girl  is  worth  loving,  she  will  know  that  any  woman, 
if  she  had  twenty  castles,  might  be  proud  to  marry  a  true  artist. 
She  will  think  more  of  him,  as  he  sits  with  an  old  coat  and  oil- 
stained  cuflEs  before  his  easel,  than  of  a  young  dandy  smelling  like 
a  civet-cat  and  incrusted  with  rings,  who  comes  to  pay  compli- 
ments out  of  an  empty  brain  to  her.  Suppose  she  had  twenty 
dozen  such  castles,  she  ought  to  feel  proud  and  honored  by  hav- 
ing gained  the  love  of  a  man  who  may  make  the  next  centuries 
inquire  curiously  about  her,  and  speak  kindly  of  her  for  his  sake." 

"  German,  all  German,  my  dear  Franz,"  I  said.  "  Translate  that 
into  English,  and  it  will  become  mere  bathos." 

"  To  the  devil,  then,  with  your  beast  of  a  language  !"  exclaimed 
Franz.  "  I  should  have  thought,  when  you  borrowed  your  speech 
from  all  the  nations  in  Europe,  you  might  have  got  as  much  as 
would  let  you  talk  common-sense.  I  was  studying  your  language 
while  you  were  looking  over  the  gates  up  to  the  big  house.  I 
found  the  melange  almost  intelligible.  There  was  '' fourniture,^ 
which  was  French  ;  there  was  '  mansion,'  from  the  Latin  '  mansio,'' 
I  suppose  ;  there  was  '  park,'  which  is  merely  our  German  '  Park  ;' 
there  was  '  timber,''  which  is  an  old  Icelandic  and  Danish  and — " 

"What  are  you  talking  about?  'Mansion,'  'park,'  'timber' 
— where  did  you  see  all  this?" 


304  KILMENY. 

"  As  I  tell  you,  while  you  were  looking  up  at  the  house. 
There  are  two  large  bills  on  the  gates." 

"  On  the  Burnham  gates  ?" 

"Yes." 

We  had  not  gone  far  on  our  return  journey ;  so  we  walked 
back  again  to  see  what  these  bills  were.  As  I  had  suspected, 
they  were  the  ordinary  advertisements  of  a  firm  of  auctioneers. 

"  Burnham  is  for  sale,"  I  said  to  Franz. 

"  So  the  lady  took  us  for  two  probable  purchasers,"  remarked 
Franz,  ruefully.     "  That  explains  her  complaisance." 

"Do  we  look  like  probable  purchasers  of  a  house  like  that?" 

Yes,  after  all  these  years,  Burnham  and  the  old  family  were 
to  be  separated  ;  and  the  girl  who  was  the  last  of  the  race  was  to 
be  turned  out  into  the  world,  a  wanderer.  Here,  now,  was  a 
splendid  opportunity  for  the  hero  and  lover  to  step  in,  buy  up 
the  place,  and  lay  it  as  a  gift  at  his  mistress's  feet.  Among  all 
the  young  men  of  England,  rich  and  able  to  do  such  a  thing,  was 
there  not  one  who  would  come  forward  in  this  romantic  fashion, 
and  show  that  love  was  not  quite  gone  from  among  us? 

I  ought  to  have  been  selfishly  glad  that  this  catastrophe  had 
brought  Hester  Burnham  so  much  the  nearer  to  me.  But  I  had 
been  born  and  bred  under  the  shadow  of  the  antiquity  of  Burn- 
ham, and  it  seemed  to  nie  pitiable  that  the  family  should  lose  its 
high  estate  and  be  cast  out  among  strangers. 

We  stopped  that  night  at  the  Red  Lion  in  Missenden,  and  we 
found  all  the  talk  was  about  the  sale  of  Burnham.  I  succeeded 
in  preserving  my  incognito,  and  listened  to  all  the  rum()rs  and 
stories  which  were  circulated  without  restraint  about  the  matter. 

"  I'm  not  for  sayin',"  remarked  one  old  gentleman,  who  sat  in 
a  corner  of  the  parlor,  and  smoked  a  long  clay — "  I'm  not  for 
sayin'  as  anybody's  in  the  wrong." 

"  I  side  with  you,  Muster  Clump,"  remarked  another;  "but  I 
thinks  as  it  wur  a  pity  Miss  Hester  should  ha'  been  sent  to  France. 
Folks  don't  stick  to  the  good  old  English  way  o'  livin'  when  they 
come  back  from  France  ;  and  though  1  wouldn't  say  as  it  was  Miss 
Hester's  doin',  I  hold  as  it  wur  a  pity  she  should  ha'  been  sent  to 
France." 

"  It  wur  none  o'  her  doin',"  si^id  a  third,  decisively,  "  I'll  stake 
my  life  on't ;  and  I  doan't  see  as  any  mahn  has  the  right  to  blame 
thiuifs  on  France  as  he  doesn't  understand." 


AT    BURNHAM    GATES.  305 

"  Ah,  you're  a  wise  inahu.  Muster  Blaydon,"  retorted  the  other, 
with  a  sneer,  "and  so  you  wur  wlien  your  good  missus  axed  ye 
about  them  pigs  o'  Mr.  Toomer's." 

Here  there  was  a  subdued  hiugh  all  around ;  and  Mr.  Blaydon 
looked  disposed  to  rise  and  settle  the  question  summarily  with 
his  opponent. 

"  I  hain't  a  dog  chasin'  of  his  own  tail,  leastways,  and  thinkin' 
as  he's  makin'  folks  laugh.  I  hold  by  it  as  it  wur  none  o'  her 
doin' ;  and  them  as  talks  about  France  had  better  show  as  they've 
been  there  by  their  manners." 

"  There  be  more  nor  Miss'  Hester  in  the  family,"  observed  the 
first  speaker,  sagaciously  nodding  his  head. 

"  Ah,  that  there  be !"  repeated  Mr.  Blaydon,  triumphantly. 
"There  be  more  nor  her.  Muster  Clump;  and  it  don't  seem  to 
me  likely  as  a  young  lady  like  that  has  been  meddlin'  wi'  them 
lawyers,  and  gettin'  the  place  into  debt.  I  say  wi'  you,  Muster 
Clump,  there's  more  o'  the  name  than  her;  and  no  mahn  will 
make  me  believe  as  it  is  her  fault.     Talk  o'  France  !    Pah  !" 

"  I'm  not  goin'  to  reason  wi'  any  mahn  as  runs  his  head  agin  a 
stone  wall,  like  a  mad  bull,"  remarked  the  second  speaker,  with 
slow  virulence ;  "  but  what  I  say  is  as  other  folks  in  the  country 
'ave  stayed  at  'orae  all  their  lives,  and  made  theirsels  comfortabler 
and  richer  than  they  wur  afore,  and  as  it  is  a  suspicious  cikm- 
stance — 1  say,  a  suspicious  cikmstance — as  them  as  has  gone  to 
France  'ave  come  back  and  found  they  wur  obliged  to  sell  out.  I 
don't  reason  wi'  no  mahn  ;  but  I  see  things  as  lies  afore  my  nose, 
and  I'm  no  blinder  than  my  neighbors." 

"  And  who  is  to  have  the  old  place,  gentlemen  ?"  said  the  land- 
lord. 

"  Most  like  a  linen-draper  fro'  Lunnon,"  remarked  Mr.  Clump, 
contemptuously,  "  as  '11  paint  the  'ouse  spick-and-span  new,  and 
put  up  boards  agin'  trespassers — as  '11  go  out  shootin',  and  hit  the 
dogs  instead  o'  the  birds,  and  pay  nothin'  to  the  'unt — " 

"  And  kill  the  foxes,"  said  one. 

"  And  contract  wi'  alfthe  Lunnon  tradesmen  for  what  he  wants, 
to  save  twopence  off  the  pound  o'  tea." 

"  Yes,  Muster  Blaydon,"  said  Mr.  Clump,  "  there's  a  goodish 
many  o'  the  gentry  as  doan't  know  their  dooty — leastways  they 
doan't  do  it — to  the  place  where  they  wur  born  and  bred.  They 
mun  send  to  Lunnon  for  heverythink — even  if  they  want  pepper- 


306  KILMKNY. 

mints  for  church  o'  Sundays — howiver  fur  away  they  be;  and  all 
to  be  in  the  fashion,  and  forgettin'  as  the  people  around  them  'ave 
rents  to  pay,  and  don't  orumble  when  their  corn's  trodden  down 
by  the  'unt.  I  will  say  this,  as  Miss  Hester  war  good  in  that  way 
to  the  folks  in  this  here  place ;  and  it's  my  belief  as  there'll  be  a 
difiference  when  the  new  howner  comes  in." 

This,  indeed,  seemed  to  be  the  general  impression ;  and  there 
was  scarcely  one  of  them  there  who  had  not  some  kindly  act  to 
speak  of  on  the  part  of  Hester  Burnham. 

As  I  looked  along  the  valley  the  next  morning,  it  seemed  to 
me  that  Burnham  was  about  to  undergo  a  great  transformation, 
and  be  henceforth  stranofe  and  unfamiliar. 


CHAPTER    XXXV. 

THE  DROPPED  GLOVE. 


On  the  following  afternoon  Franz  and  I  were  seated  at  one  of 
the  bow-windows  of  the  Langham  smoking-room,  looking  at  the 
people  who  were  driving  down  I'orthuid  Place  towards  Regent 
Street,  in  every  description  of  carriage.  Now  it  was  a  Cabinet 
Minister,  looking  austerely  unconscious  of  the  notice  he  was  at- 
tracting ;  now  it  was  a  young  and  pretty  prima  donna,  gayly  chat- 
ting to  her  husband,  and  confounding  the  current  rumors  about 
her  conjugal  uiihappiness ;  now  it  was  a  well-known  peeress,  who 
had  just  been  attending  a  meeting  of  some  charitable  society ; 
and  again  it  was  some  pour  young  girl  who  had  at  iirst  figured  in 
a  casino,  and  then  been  petted  and  photographed  and  made  much 
of,  until  she  had  come  out  as  a  fine  lady,  and  was  now  coating  the 
primal  simplicity  of  her  face  with  violet-powder,  and  wearing  hired 
jewels,  and  looking  hard  and  worn  and  sad  under  lu-r  new-found 
wealth  and  fame. 

"  Ah,  look !"  exclaimed  Franz,  suddenly,  "  who  is  that  lady 
with  the  yellow  hair?" 

I  caught  sight  of  a  mail  phaeton  just  turning  the  corner.  The 
driver,  I  saw  at  a  glance,  was  Mr.  Mcjrell ;  and  tl»e  lady  on  his  left, 
whose  yellow  hair  had  attracted  Franz's  attention,  was  no  other 
than  Bonnie  Lesley. 


THE    DROPPED    GLOVE.  307 

"  That  is  a  lady  I  have  often  spoken  to  you  about,"  I  said. 
"  They  didn't  look  in  here,  did  they  ?" 

"  Not  that  I  saw,"  said  Franz. 

We  went  to  the  theatre  that  evening.  When  we  returned  there 
was  a  message  awaiting  us  to  say  that  two  gentlemen  had  called, 
and  would  call  some  time  later. 

Towards  twelve  we  were  again  in  the  smoking-room,  when  Mr. 
Morell,  in  full  evening-dress,  and  Heatherleigh,  in  his  ordinary 
rougli-and-ready  costume,  appeared  at  the  door. 

"Ha,  ha!"  said  Morell,  "if  you  didn't  see  us,  we  saw  you. 
And  now  you  must  explain — " 

"  We  did  see  you,"  I  said,  "  and  you  have  more  to  explain  than 
we  have." 

"  Don't  you  know,  then  ?"  he  asked,  with  some  surprise. 

"  What  ?" 

"  You  did  not  get  a  letter  from  Miss  Lesley,  within  the  past  two 
or  three  days  ?" 

"  Not  very  likely,  since  we  left  Munich  nearly  a  week  ago. 
Let  me  introduce  my  friend,  and  will  you  be  good  enough  to  talk 
French  ?" 

"  If  I  can,"  said  Morell. 

When  the  introduction  had  taken  place,  Heatherleigh  explained 
(allowing  Morell  to  assume  a  bashfulness  which  he  possessed  not) 
that  Bonnie  Lesley  had  written  to  tell  me  of  her  approaching 
marriage. 

"  And  this  is  the  happy  man,"  he  said,  putting  his  hand  on 
Morell's  shoulder.  "  And  he  has  shown  his  gratitude  and  good 
spirits  by  writing  the  wickedest  reviews  he  could  think  of  for 
several  weeks  past.  When  he  is  in  a  good-humor,  he  revels  in 
butchery.  The  other  night  I  went  up  to  his  chambers,  and  found 
that  he  had  just  reviewed  several  books  which  were  lying  on  the 
table.  So  soon  as  he  saw  me  he  rang  for  his  servant  to  remove 
the  carcasses,  and  went  into  his  bedroom  to  wash  his  hands." 

"  You  might  take  a  lesson  from  me,  Heatherleigh,"  he  retorted, 
"  and  keep  your  sarcasm  for  people  whom  you  don't  know." 

"  I  wish  you  all  manner  of  joy,"  I  said,  "  and  I  must  write 
to  Miss  Lesley  to  explain  why  I  did  not  answer  her  letter  di- 
rectly." 

"  Then  you  don't  know  anything  it  contained  ?"  Morell  said. 
"  You  don't  know  that  Burnham  was  to  be  sold  V 


308  KILMENV. 

"  Yes,  I  knew  that.     I  have  seen  the  announcement." 

*'  Perhaps  you  know  the  latest  news  about  it  ?" 

"  No." 

"  There  seems  a  chance  of  the  sale  being  indefinitely  postponed. 
Only,  the  house  must  be  let;  and  I  suppose  Miss  Burnham  will 
live  abroad." 

"  Abroad  ?" 

"  I  suppose  so.  I  am  sorry  Miss  Lesley  is  not  a  blood-relation 
of  that  young  lady,  or  I  might  have  the  right  to  administer  to 
Mr.  Alfred  Burnham  a  kicking  which  he  much  needs.  Ah,  you 
don't  know  anything  about  it,  do  you?  Mon  brave  f/arfon,  get 
me  something  to  drink,  and,  in  the  words  of  the  drama,  I  will  tell 
you  all." 

It  was  a  very  pretty  story  he  told  me — one  with  which  it  is  un- 
necessary to  soil  these  pages.  The  results  of  it  have  already  been 
indicated. 

"  I  will  confess,"  said  Heatherleigh,  "  that  I  did  the  old  Colonel 
an  injustice.  I  thought  his  appearance  of  simplicity,  and  his  au- 
stere and  proper  conduct,  were  only  a  bit  of  the  play,  in  which  he 
was  acting  in  concert  with  his  son.  15ut  it  seems  clear  that  the 
Colonel  has  come  worse  oti  than  anybody." 

"  No,  my  dear  boy,"  replied  Morell,  quietly,  "  the  Colonel  diil 
not  come  worst  off ;  for  lie  had  nothing  to  lose.  I  tried  him,  be- 
fore his  son  did." 

"  You  are  modest,"  said  Heatlierleigh. 

"  No,  I  am  repentant.  Those  days  are  over.  I  borrow  no 
more.  I  am  about  to  become  an  exemplary  husband  and  citi- 
zen ;  give  up  all  my  clubs  except  one ;  smoke  cigars  at  thirty 
shillings;  nurse  the  baby;  and  pay  water-rates.  Nevertheless,  I 
will  ask  you  for  a  good  cigar,  my  dear  Ives;  for  the  days  of  re- 
nunciation are  not  yet  come." 

"And  where  is  Alfred  Burnham?"  I  asked. 

"That,"  remarked  Morell,  "is  a  solemn  question." 

"And  the  answer  is  worth  money,"  addc(l  IIc;itlicrlcigh.  "If 
the  demand  for  the  gentleman  were  at  all  itiilK  :iti\ c  of  his  value, 
one  might  say  that  Alfred  Burnham  was  somebody  worth  know- 
ing. But  you  have  not  told  us  yet  what  brought  you  over  here, 
just  now  ?" 

"  Voii  must  ask  my  friend." 

"  1  think,"  said  Franz,  sj)eakitig  in  very  Teutonic  l"'reneli,  "that 


THE    DROPPED    GLOVE.  309 

we  came  from  Munich  to  England  to  look  over  a  white  gate  at  a 
house,  and  then  go  back  again." 

"  Was  the  house  called  Burnham  House,  Monsieur  Vogl  ?"  asked 
Heatherleigh. 

"  I  believe  it  was,  sir." 

"  Then  I  knew  of  one  man  who  might  have  done  such  a  thing; 
but  I  did  not  fancy  that  Europe  held  two." 

"  Be  satisfied  with  the  discovery,"  I  said,  "  and  let  us  talk  of 
something  else.  I  suppose  my  mother  is  well ;  and  her  young 
companion,  is  she  also  well  ?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Heatherleigh,  hastily,  "  they  are  both  well,  as  you 
know.  But  what  do  you  intend  doing  ?  What  do  you  mean  by 
living  at  a  hotel  when  you  might  be  at  home?" 

"  Because  we  did  not  wish  it  to  be  known  that  we  were  in 
England.  We  only  came  over  for  a  day  or  two,  that  my  friend 
might  have  a  look  at  our  English  wild-flowers  in  the  spring  sun- 
shine ;  and  we  intended  running  back  immediately.  But  now  I 
suppose  we  may  as  well  see  everybody  properly,  and  in  as  little 
time  as  possible,  and  then  go  back." 

This,  in  effect,  was  what  was  forced  upon  us  by  our  being  dis- 
covered. We  still  remained  at  the  Langham  for  convenience  sake ; 
but  we  spent  most  of  our  time  in  hurriedly  visiting  people  between 
the  hours  of  Franz's  sightseeing.  Polly  was  overjoyed  to  show 
herself  off  as  an  expectant  bride ;  and  yet  you  could  not  help  be- 
ing charmed  by  the  odd  mixture  of  humor  and  frank  jollity  which 
accompanied  her  evident  self-satisfaction.  My  mother,  too,  seemed 
to  look  upon  the  match  as  greatly  the  result  of  her  care  in  edu- 
cating Polly  ;  and  took  every  pains  to  show  oflE  the  accomplish- 
ments which  Polly  modestly  tried  to  conceal. 

Bonnie  Lesley  I  saw  twice.  On  our  first  meeting,  she  began  the 
history  of  her  engagement  with  Mr.  Morell  in  a  deprecatory  sort 
of  way,  as  if  she  felt  it  necessary  to  excuse  herself  to  me.  I  fan- 
cied I  detected  a  touch  of  chagrin  in  her  tone  when  she  saw  that 
I  scarcely  understood  this  effort  on  her  part,  and  was  certainly  in 
no  great  anxiety  to  remove  scruples  which  I  could  not  compre- 
hend. This  odd  feeling  soon  wore  off,  as  she  grew  confidential 
in  the  old  fashion ;  and  at  last  she  got  to  state  the  relations  on 
which  she  stood  with  her  intended  husband  with  a  candor  which 
would  have  surprised  any  one  who  did  not  know  her  as  well  as  I 
did, 


310  KILMENY. 

"  I  think  Mr.  Heatherleigh  was  right,"  sho  said,  carelessly  and 
with  much  apparent  self-satisfaction  ;  "  I  am  not  capable  of  a  grand 
passion — I  wish  I  was ;  but  you  can't  make  yourself  do  these 
things ;  and  it  is  perhaps  as  well,  for  it  might  make  one  very  un- 
happy. I  like  Mr.  Morell  very  well,  lie  is  good-tempered  and 
clever ;  he  admires  me,  I  know,  and  thinks  I  will  preside  proper- 
ly at  his  dinner-table;  and  that  I  know  I  shall  do.  We  get  on 
remarkably  well  together,  and  I  think  we  shall  be  very  happy." 

"  I  certainly  hope  so." 

"  You  may  say  there  is  not  much  romance  in  all  that.  But  I 
scarcely  see  anybody  who  is  romantic  around  me ;  and  I  think  we 
shall  be  very  much  like  other  people.  It  is  not  a  mercenary  mar- 
riage, either;  for  he  makes  only  a  moderate  income,  and  what  I 
have  is  no  great  inducement  to  a  man  moving  in  such  circles  as 
he  knows.  He  has  expectations,  certainly  ;  and  I  hope  we  shall 
be  able  to  meet  our  friends  on  equal  terms,  and  not  have  to  be 
stingy." 

Bonnie  Lesley  had  grown  much  more  matter-of-fact  in  tone 
since  I  had  first  known  her,  and  there  was  less  of  pretty  wonder 
in  her  eyes. 

She  added,  after  a  pause — 

"  You  see,  it  is  not  what  you  would  call  a  love-match,  nor  is  it  a 
marriage  made  up  for  money.  It  is  simply  two  people  who  think 
they  can  get  on  comfortably  in  each  other's  society,  who  like  each 
other,  and  hope  to  continue  to  like  each  other.  Upon  my  word,  I 
think  most  people  marry  like  that.  These  wonderful  love-affairs 
only  happen  between  boys  and  girls,  and  they  never  come  to  any- 
thing ;  for  the  boy  can't  marry  just  then,  and  the  girl  ages  more 
rapidly  than  he,  and  finds  she  can't  wait  for  him,  and  marries 
somebody  else." 

"  And  he  has  a  broken  heart  for  a  few  weeks,  and  then  turns 
to  his  business  or  profession,  and  gets  older  and  wiser,  and  marries 
a  woman  much  better  suited  to  him  in  every  way,  and  leads  an 
ordinarily  happy  life.  Didn't  you  try  to  give  me  the  first  part  of 
that  experience  ?" 

"  Now,  that  is  unkind,"  she  said,  "  after  T  told  you  1  was  so  sor- 
ry, and  you  agreed  to  forget  it." 

"  I  revived  it  only  to  tell  you  li()W  near  yo\i  were  succeeding." 

"Was  I,  indeed?"  she  said,  with  a  j»leased  surprise.  "Were 
y<»u  very  near  falling  wildly  in  love  with  mc?" 


THE    DROPPED    GLOVE.  311 

"  Very  near,  1  think — until,  one  day,  while  I  was  sitting  beside 
you,  I  looked  up  and  saw  a  face  that  I  knew,  in  an  instant,  I  had 
loved  all  along,  without  scarcely  knowing  it." 

"  I  know  what  you  mean,"  she  said,  "  and  your  manner  was 
changed  to  me  ever  after  that  day." 

Presently  she  added  in  another  tone — 

"  I  suppose  Mr.  Heatherleigh  will  rather  laugh  at  our  marriage, 
and  say  it  is  an  ordinary  social  bargain,  or  something  like  that." 

"  I  don't  think  he  will  do  anything  of  the  kind.  Won't  you 
tell  me  now  why  you  constantly  fancy  he  is  saying  ill-natured 
things  of  you,  and  putting  the  worst  possible  construction  on 
everything  you  do  ?" 

But  she  would  not  tell,  nor  would  Heatherleigh  ever  breathe  a 
word  upon  the  subject ;  and  it  was  only  by  haphazard,  some 
eighteen  months  thereafter,  that  I  was  enabled  to  unravel  the 
mystery.  A  little  fit  of  very  uncalled-for  jealousy  on  the  part  of 
Polly  was  the  means  of  letting  me  into  the  secret.  From  the 
moment  that  Polly  saw  herself  the  future  wife  of  the  man  whom 
of  all  others  she  most  admired  and  worshipped,  I  fancy  she  was 
rather  given  to  grudging  him  his  acquaintance  with  fine  folks, 
and,  above  all,  with  fine  young  ladies.  The  weakness  was  a  nat- 
ural one,  but  Polly  knew  it  was  a  weakness,  and  labored  to  get 
rid  of  it ;  nevertheless  she  occasionally  exhibited  little  fits  of  en- 
vious depreciation  of  those  who,  she  fancied,  were  attracting  too 
much  of  her  husband's  attention.  Among  these  she  placed  Bon- 
nie Lesley,  and  seemed  to  dislike  that  young  lady  more,  I  am  cer- 
tain, than  circumstances  warranted. 

"Heatherleigh  never  liked  Bonnie  Lesley,  you  may  take  my 
word  for  it,"  I  said  to  Polly,  after  both  she  and  Bonnie  Lesley 
were  married. 

"  1  know  it,"  she  said,  sharply ;  "  for  she  proposed  to  him,  and 
he  refused  her,  and  she  hated  him  ever  after,  because  he  told  a 
mutual  friend  that  she  was  born  without  a  soul.  There !"  she 
added,  breaking  into  a  humorous  laugh,  "  I  have  told  you  the  se- 
cret: but  I  could  not  help  it.  Though  I  think,  after  that,  he 
ought  to  have  stayed  away  from  the  Lewisons'  and  never  seen 
Bonnie  Lesley  again,  that  she  might  forget  it." 

"  I  have  no  doubt  he  went  there  that  she  might  learn  to  think 
it  of  no  consequence,  and  so  forget  it." 

Franz  and  I  remained  for  yet  a  few  days  in  England,  in  ordej 


312  KILMENY. 

to  pay  a  flying  visit  to  the  Cumberland  lakes,  with  which  my 
friend  was  enchanted.  It  was  perhaps  a,  cruel  thing  to  show  that 
piece  of  scenery  to  a  man  who  was  going  back  to  Munich. 

On  the  day  preceding  our  departure  we  were  to  go  up  to  the 
Lewisons'  to  bid  them  and  Miss  Lesley  good-bye.  We  went,  by 
appointment,  in  the  morning.  Shortly  after  we  arrived,  Mr.  Lew- 
ison,  having  to  go  into  the  city,  left ;  and  Mrs.  Lewison  taking 
Franz  to  show  him  her  husband's  collection  of  pictures,  I  was  left 
alone  with  Bonnie  Lesley. 

"  What  do  you  think  of  all  that  I  told  you  the  other  day  ?"  she 
asked.     "  What  do  you  think  of  my  marriage  ?" 

"  I  think  that  you  and  Mr.  Morell  will  get  on  very  well  togeth- 
er; fori  fancy  you  will  take  pretty  much  the  same  views  of  most 
things." 

"  Now  that  is  just  it,"  she  said.  "  Don't  you  think  wc  should 
be  running  a  great  risk  if  either  of  us  was  nursing  a  grand  ro- 
mantic passion  ?  Haven't  you  seen  two  people  married,  the  one 
of  them  very  practical,  sensible,  and  matter-of-fact ;  the  other  very 
romantic,  and  very  miserable  because  he  or  she  can't  get  the  other 
to  be  responsive  to  the  sentiment," 

"  There  is  no  use  in  saying  '  he  or  she,'  "  I  said.  "  In  such  a  case, 
it  ib  always  the  man  who  is  romantically  fond  of  his  wife,  and  the 
wife  who  is  matter-of-fact." 

"  Did  you  ever  see  two  people  married,  who  were  both  capable 
of  a  grand  romantic  passion,  you  know — of  heroic  sentiment,  and 
picturesque  resolves?  IIow  would  two  such  people  condescend 
to  be  bothered  by  ordinary  company  ?  Wouldn't  they  always  be 
wanting  to  be  in  a  boat  in  the  moonlight;  even  although  she  had 
a  house  to  look  after,  and  he  had — " 

The  door  opened,  and  Mrs.  Lewison  and  Franz  appeared.  There 
was  a  third  figure;  and  there  was  something  in  the  look  of  Bon- 
nie Lesley's  face  that  told  me  who  it  was.  I  knew  that  the  figure 
was  small  and  dressed  in  black,  and  then  I  turned  and  looked  up, 
and  found  the  beautiful  eyes  of  Kilmeny  there. 

What  did  they  say?  There  was  merely  an  embarrassed  sur- 
prise in  them  ;  and  I  saw  that  the  meeting,  which  had  been 
planiiecl  by  Bonnie  Lesley,  was  as  unexpected  by  Hester  Burn- 
liam  as  it  had  been  by  me. 

She  came  forward. 

"  You  will  forgive  me  for  not  recognizing  you  the  other  day," 


THE    DROPPED    GLOVE.  313 

she  said,  in  her  gentle,  honest  way.    "  But  why  did  you  not  bring 
your  friend  up  to  the  house  ?" 

It  was  impossible,  looking  at  those  eyes,  to  make  any  sham  ex- 
cuse: she  knew  why  I  had  avoided  seeing  her. 

"  It  would  have  interested  him,  I  dare  say ;  and  I  suppose  he 
has  already  told  you  how  much  he  was  delighted  with  the  valley, 
and  all  the  scenery  there,  and  Burnham  ?" 

"  I  never  knew  how  pretty  the  place  was  until  now,"  she  said ; 
and  her  eyes  were  wistful  and  far  away. 

"  Now,  young  people,"  said  Mrs.  Lewison,  "  I  can't  let  you  go 
down  to  this  picture-exhibition  without  taking  some  lunch  first." 

"  But  you  are  coming,  are  you  not,  Mrs.  Lewison  ?"  I  asked. 

"Hester  will  take  my  place,  and  look  after  you  all,  and  bring 
you  back  safely.  She  is  already  well  acquainted  with  all  the 
mysterious  duties  of  the  chaperone  and  the  housekeeper,  and  is, 
indeed,  the  oldest  young  person  I  know.     Are  you  not,  Hester  ?" 

"  A  chaperone  has  only  one  duty,"  said  Miss  Lesley,  "  and  that 
is  to  get  out  of  the  way,  or  fall  asleep  at  times ;  and  Hester  is  al- 
ways in  the  way,  and  never  sleeps.  She  is  like  a  dormouse  that 
lies  curled  up  and  small  and  warm,  and  all  the  time  is  peeping  at 
you  with  two  small  bright  eyes." 

"  But  then,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Lewison,  "  it  can  be  of  no  con- 
sequence to  you,  now,  whether  your  chaperone  sleeps  or  not." 

"  You  mean  it  can  be  of  no  consequence  to  Mr. — " 

But  Bonnie  Lesley  stopped,  and  laughed  and  blushed,  and  Mr. 
Morell's  name  was  not  mentioned. 

It  was  finally  arranged  that  the  young  ladies  should  get  ready 
to  go  out  while  luncheon  was  being  prepared ;  and  so  it  was  that 
Franz  and  I  were  left  alone, 

"  This  is  terrible,"  said  he.  "  I  do  not  know  how  to  take  lunch 
with  your  English  ladies.    I  shall  commit  a  thousand  gaucheries.'''' 

"  Nonsense !  Only  don't  cut  up  your  meat  in  small  pieces  to 
start  with,  and  don't  put  your  knife  to  your  mouth,  and  don't 
praise  anything  unless  you  are  asked.     That  is  all." 

Franz  did  not  enjoy  his  lunch.  In  the  first  place,  French  was 
a  tribulation  to  him.  Then  he  never  dared  touch  anything,  or 
use  any  knife,  spoon,  or  fork,  until  he  had  seen  some  one  else  do 
so.  But  he  acquitted  himself  perfectly ;  and  in  due  time  we 
were  in  the  old,  familiar  dark-green  brougham,  and  driving  rap- 
idly down  towards  Pall  Mall. 

O 


314  KILMENV. 

It  was  an  exhibition  of  water-colors  that  we  had  arranged  to 
visit.  But  the  exhibition  had  been  open  for  a  h^ng  time ;  and  on 
this  particular  morning  there  was  not  a  human  being  in  the  place 
except  an  old  and  benevolent-looking  gentleman,  with  white  hair, 
who  sat  at  a  table  placed  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  and  calmly 
read  the  morning's  news.  The  long  room  was  warm  and  hushed ; 
the  only  sound  the  occasional  dr()p})ing  of  a  bit  of  cinder  from 
the  grate.  The  thick  carpets  dulled  your  footsteps  as  you  walked 
across ;  and  there  was  something  in  the  close,  still  atmosphere 
which  tempted  you,  for  no  particular  reason,  to  talk  in  a  whisper. 
I  wondered  that  the  elderly  gentleman  who  presided  over  the  cat- 
alogues had  not  fallen  asleep. 

Then  we  walked  straight  into  dreamland ;  and  found  ourselves 
in  all  manner  of  wonderful  places — now  looking  down  into  some 
Welsh  glen,  or  fronting  the  great  bridge  and  the  broad  stream  and 
the  lofty  Hradschin  of  Prague,  the  city  of  all  cities  that  I  love 
the  most.  We  had  only  to  move  a  few  inches  in  order  to  whisk 
ourselves  across  a  continent.  A  slight  inclination  of  the  head, 
and  we  changed  a  gray  and  windy  morning  into  a  calm  and  yel- 
low evening.  Here  were  bits  of  sea  ofT  the  Essex  coast,  cold  and 
pale,  and  studded  with  the  black  hulls  of  smacks ;  and  here  were 
sunny  glimpses  of  the  white  houses  and  green  vines  of  Capri ; 
and  here  were  stretches  of  dark  Scotch  moors,  lonely  and  bleak  ; 
and  warm  sunsets  down  among  the  Surrey  hills;  and  snow-scenes 
in  the  icy  wilds  of  Russia,  All  these  things  I  saw  reflected  in 
Kilmeny's  eyes ;  and  I  fancied  that  her  face  caught  a  glow  from 
the  sunsets,  and  that  the  windy  coast-scenes  seemed  to  bring  a 
tinge  of  heightened  color  to  her  cheek.  We  two  had  wandercil 
up  to  the  top  of  the  room  by  ourselves,  to  look  at  a  picture  that 
was  marked  in  the  catalogue  as  "  Sunset  in  the  Oberinnthal." 
This  picture  was  not  the  grandest  jn-rformance  one  could  have 
wished.  It  was  melodramatic  in  conception,  and  pretentious  in 
style ;  yet  it  was  exceedingly  like  the  great  valley  that  stretches 
along  to  Innsbruck,  and  it  gave  an  excellent  notion  of  the  intense 
quiet  and  solitariness  of  the  place.  The  sun  was  down,  and  while 
the  peaks  of  the  limestoiK^  mountains  stood  bare  and  red  in  the 
pale  green  sky,  down  in  the  valley  there  lay  cold  mists,  with  a  few 
oraiigi!  j»oints  gleaming  through  the  dusk,  where  a  village  lay  in 
the  valley.  There  was  no  otluT  sign  of  life;  everytliing  was  as 
motionless  and  still  as  the.  thin  white  crescent  of  the  moon  that 
was  faintly  visililc  in  the  glow  of  the  sunset. 


THE    DROPPED    GLOVE.  315 

"  You  have  just  been  there,"  she  said. 

"  Yes.  We  walked  all  down  the  valley,  by  the  road  you  see 
there ;  and  it  was  as  still  and  quiet  as  you  see  it,  for  we  came 
along  there  in  the  evening.  Don't  you  think  it  is  a  very  beau- 
tifuf  valley?" 

We  had  both  sat  down,  opposite  the  picture,  and  behind  a 
centre-screen  which  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  floor.  So  still  was 
the  place,  and  so  completely  did  this  temporary  partition  cut  us 
off  even  from  our  two  companions,  that  it  was  almost  possible  to 
imagine  that  we  were  really  in  the  Oberinnthal,  under  the  pale 
sunset.  The  eyes  of  Kilmeny  were  full  of  that  sunset.  They 
had  the  strange,  dreamlike,  distant  look  that  I  had  often  noticed 
in  them — when,  if  you  spoke  to  her,  she  seemed  to  have  to  recall 
herself  from  a  trance  before  she  could  answer. 

"  I  wish  that  we  two  could  be  there  now,"  I  said  to  her. 

I  had  grown  so  bold,  you  see ;  for  it  was  as  if  I  were  talking  in  a 
dream,  and  as  if  she  were  far  away  from  me  and  could  hardly  hear. 

"  If  you  and  I  could  be  down  there,  in  that  valley,  away  from 
England,"  I  said — and  I  scarcely  knew  that  I  was  anxious  and 
supplicating  as  I  watched  her  face — "  I  would  tell  you  that  I 
loved  you  dearly ;  that  I  have  worshipped  you  from  afar  off  so 
long,  not  daring  to  speak  to  you ;  that  I  have  always  loved  you, 
ever  since  I  used  to  watch  for  you,  years  ago,  coming  down  from 
Burnham.  And  if  we  were  there  by  ourselves,  you  would  not  be 
angry  with  me,  I  think,  if  I  said  all  that.  You  might  tell  me  to 
leave  you ;  but  you  would  grant  something  to  the  love  that  I  have 
for  you,  and  let  us  part  as  friends." 

Then  I  knew  that  her  eyes  had  come  back  from  the  picture, 
and  were  looking  at  me  earnestly  and  sadly ;  and  her  face  was 
pale. 

"  You  would  say  that  if  we  were  in  Germany  ?"  she  said,  in  her 
low,  tender  tones. 

"And  you  would  believe  what  I  said,"  I  answered,  looking  into 
her  beautiful  face. 

"But  it  is  too  soon  to  say  it  here,  in  England?" 

With  that  she  rose  and  turned  away,  so  that  I  could  not  meet 
her  eyes  to  learn  what  she  was  thinking.  But  at  the  same  mo- 
ment I  saw  her  rapidly  take  off  one  of  her  gloves ;  and  somehow, 
before  I  knew  what  had  occurred,  the  pale  little  token  was  lying 
just  beside  my  hand,  where  she  had  dropped  it, 


316  KILMENY. 

Then  she  went,  and  I  remained  for  a  second  or  two  stupefied, 
and  scarcely  daring  to  believe  that  I  was  in  actual,  secret  posses- 
sion of  this  glove.  I  rose,  stunned  with  a  new,  bewildering  sense 
of  joy  that  could  find  no  outlet  or  expression ;  and  I  saw  that  she 
had  joined  Miss  Lesley  and  Franz. 

Did  they  notice  how  pale  she  was?  Did  they  notice  that  one 
small  hand  was  bare  ?  That,  at  least,  I  saw,  and  my  joy  was  un- 
speakable ;  for  the  little,  white  hand  of  my  darling  told  me  that 
the  glove  I  held  was  real,  and  mine. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI. 

OUR    TRUSTY    COUSIN. 


"  What  do  you  think,  then,  of  England  as  a  place  to  live  in  ?" 
I  asked  of  Franz,  as  we  stood  on  the  deck  of  the  Calais  boat,  and 
saw  the  wavering  lights  of  Dover  grow  momentarily  more  and 
more  dim  in  the  distance. 

"  I  am  not  an  Englishman,"  said  Franz.  "  I  can't  give  you  a 
decided  opinion  about  a  country,  and  its  people  and  its  politics, 
from  having  stayed  a  week  in  it." 

"  Well,  you  can  say  whether  you  would  like  to  remain  a  year 
or  two  in  London,  for  example." 

"I  could  not  do  it.  London  seems  a  nice  place  for  people  with 
plenty  of  money  and  plenty  of  friends.  For  me,  I  should  prob- 
ably shoot  myself  after  a  month  of  it.  How  should  1  spend  my 
evenings?  I  could  not  go  to  the  theatres  every  night,  even  if 
they  were  better  than  they  seem  to  be.  Your  music-halls  arc  the 
natural  resort  of  your  young  men  who  wish  to  amuse  themselves 
in  the  evening;  and  they — " 

Franz  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  For  my  part,"  he  said,  "  I  did  not  understand  the  songs.  Per- 
haps they  were  clever.  But  I  do  not  see  the  reason  why  men  and 
women  should  a[)plaud  and  laugh  merely  because  a  man  comes  on 
the  stage  in  the  dress  of  a  dandy.  He  can  sing  no  more  than  a 
cow — the  words  of  the  song  may  be  good — " 

"  My  dear  fritiud,  the  wit  of  the  song  lies  in  the  color  and  size 
of  the  singer's  neckerchiefj" 


OUR    TRUSTY    COUSIN.  31 7 

"  Then  the  outrageous  indecency  of  the  place,  with  the  police 
stationed  as  guardians — " 

"  But  there  is  one  where  no  such  indecency  is  permitted — " 

"  Why,"  said  Franz,  with  another  shrug,  "  if  decency  only  means 
conjuring  tricks  and  ventriloquism,  and  the  efforts  of  a  man  to 
swing  chairs  with  his  teeth,  indecency  is  likely  to  be  more  popu- 
lar. No,  your  London  is  not  to  me  a  lively  place.  It  is  too  eager 
and  busy,  too  hurried  and  too  ostentatious.  I  like  your  old  coun- 
try towns  better ;  they  look  as  if  the  people  in  them  were  content 
to  live  reasonably  and  peaceably.  You — will  you  live  in  London 
or  in  that  valley,  when  your  Lehrjahre  and  Wanderjahre  are  all 
over  ?" 

"  I  ?  When  a  dozen  years  of  hard  work  have  brought  me  suf- 
ficient money  to  rent  Burnham  House,  I  mean  to  live  there." 

"  The  young  lady  does  not  mean  to  sell  it,  then  ?" 

"  She  will  never  sell  it,  if  she  can  help  it ;  and  I  fancy  she  will 
only  let  it  until  she  has  got  as  much  money  as  will  enable  her  to 
go  back  there,  free  from  the  difficulties  in  which  her  cousin  entan- 
gled her." 

"  And  in  the  mean  time  ?" 

"In  the  mean  time  she  is  going  to  live  abroad — for  the  sake 
of  cheapness,  I  suppose." 

"  Shall  we  see  her  in  Munich  ?"  said  Franz. 

"  How  should  I  know  ?" 

"  She  is  interested  in  Munich,  at  all  events,"  said  Franz.  "  She 
sent  that  message  to  us  at  the  gates  of  Burnham,  just  on  the 
chance  of  our  having  come  from  Munich." 

"  How  do  you  know  ?" 

"  She  told  me  yesterday  morning,  when  she  came  into  the  room 
where  Madame — your  friend  with  the  unpronounceable  name — and 
I  were.  She  recognized  me  at  once.  She  was  very  gracious  to 
me,  and  we  had  a  walk  around  the  pictures ;  and  I  became  so  good 
friends  with  her  that  I  wished  I  could  have  sat  down  and  played 
my  zither  for  her.     But  I  saw  that  I  made  a  blunder." 

"  How  ?" 

"  I  was  telling  her  stories,  prompted  by  the  different  pictures, 
you  know ;  and  I  told  her  by  accident  of  a  poor  ignorant  devil  of 
a  painter  down  in  Waldshut  who  was  painting  a  crucifix,  and  put 
'  R.  S.  V.  P.'  instead  of  '  I.  N.  R.  I.'  over  it.  What  was  there  in 
that  ?     Nothing.     But  she  did  not  like  it,  I  could  see ;    and  I 


318  KILMENY. 

blamed  myself  for  talking  freely  to  one  of  your  English  ladies, 
without  knowing  their  peculiar  sensitiveness.  Your  English- 
women seem  very  tender  about  their  religion,  and  a  little  too 
apprehensive,  I  think,  that  you  may  be  an  enemy,  when  you  m-e 
thinking  of  something  quite  different." 

"  But  the  religion  of  the  country  rests  with  them  at  present," 
I  said,  "  and  they  do  right  to  be  vigilant  sentinels.  Whenever 
they  imagine  they  see  the  figure  of  Irreverence  stalking  in  the 
distance — " 

"  They  raise  a  clamor  like  that  which  saved  the  Capitol,"  said 
Franz. 

I  suppose  Amphitrite  must  have  heard  this  remark,  and  stirred 
up  her  husband  to  revenge  her  sex ;  for,  as  we  neared  the  French 
coast,  the  motion  of  the  vessel  became  much  more  marked,  and 
Franz,  against  all  persuasion,  was  fain  to  take  the  fatal  step  of 
going  below.  When  he  reappeared,  as  the  boat  was  being  made 
fast  to  the  stone  walls  of  Calais  pier,  the  glare  of  a  lamp  showed 
that  his  face  was  very  white,  and  there  was  a  general  air  of  help- 
lessness about  his  person. 

"  I  won't  go  straight  on  to  Cologne,"  he  said,  when  he  got  into 
the  train.  "  I  shall  stop  the  day  in  Brussels,  and  go  on  to-mor- 
row." 

"  Very  well,"  said  I,  "  and  you  will  give  me  a  little  dinner  at 
the  Deux  Rois." 

We  spent  the  day  therefore  in  that  most  English  of  all  foreign 
towns,  and,  having  dined  at  the  hostelry  aforesaid,  were  going 
down  to  the  Theatre  de  la  Monnaie.  In  passing  through  the 
Avenue  de  la  Reine,  which  was  crowded  with  people,  who  walked 
up  and  down  and  stared  at  each  other  and  the  glaring  shops,  Franz 
and  I  found  ourselves  behind  three  men  who  were  clearly  Eng- 
lish in  costume  and  appearance.  At  the  first  glance  I  fancied  1 
recognized  the  figure  of  one  of  them  ;  ami  as  we  drew  nearer,  he 
turned  to  look  in  at  a  cigar-shop.  I  saw  then  that  he  was  a  man 
of  about  thirty-five,  dressed  rather  ostentatiously,  who  was  more 
than  suspected  of  being  a  bilhard-sharpcr  when  we  were  at  Bright- 
on. At  all  events,  he  was  politely  rcijiicsted  by  more  than  one 
hotel-manager  not  to  make  his  appearance  again  in  their  billiard- 
rooms;  and  it  was  understood  that  he  received  the  iiitinuition 
meekly. 

The  sec(Ui(l  of  the  group  was  a  handsome  and  lie;ilthy-looking 


OUR    TRUSTY    COUSIN.  319 

boy  of  about  eighteen,  who  was  neatly  and  fashionably  dressed, 
and  who  had  an  unmistakable  look  of  virgin  greenness  about  his 
face.  He  was  a  gentlemanly-looking  lad,  and  his  face  gave  you 
the  impression  that  his  sisters  would  probably  be  remarkably 
pretty.  When  he  turned,  also,  to  look  in  at  the  display  of  meer- 
schaum-pipes in  the  tobacconist's  window,  I  caught  sight  of  his 
other  companion.  It  was  Alfred  Burnham.  He  looked  twenty 
years  older  than  when  I  had  seen  him  last ;  and  there  was  a  hard, 
hawk-like  look  about  his  face  that  was  far  from  being  prepos- 
sessing. He  was  well-dressed,  too ;  but  he  had  lost  the  swagger- 
ing air  he  used  to  assume. 

What  struck  me  as  being  very  peculiar  was  the  officious  com- 
plaisance which  both  these  men  paid  to  the  boy  between  them. 
Alfred  Burnham  had  never,  as  a  rule,  striven  to  make  himself 
very  agreeable  to  the  people  around  him ;  but  now  he  was  trying 
to  look  particularly  amiable,  and  was  doing  his  best  to  ingratiate 
himself  with  the  young  man  beside  him.  So,  also,  with  his  friend 
from  Brighton,  whose  eagerness  to  be  of  service  was  more  that 
of  a  valet  than  of  a  companion. 

The  object  of  these  favors  did  not  seem  quite  to  relish  them. 
There  was  a  certain  coldness  in  his  responses  to  his  amiability ; 
but,  all  the  same,  he  seemed  to  assent  to  a  proposition  that  they 
made,  and  the  three  walked  off  together. 

I  told  Franz  who  they  were. 

"Shall  we  follow  them?"  he  said.  "We  may  see  more  with 
them  than  in  the  theatre." 

We  did  follow  them,  but  we  had  not  far  to  go.  They  entered 
a  restaurant,  went  up-stairs  and  ordered  some  wine.  It  was  rath- 
er a  fashionable  place  ;  and,  as  the  dining-rooms  were  down- 
stairs, this  room,  with  its  red-velvet  chairs  and  couches,  and  its 
small  marble  tables,  was  kept  as  a  coffee  and  smoking  room.  It 
was  a  large  place,  and  there  were  two  or  three  people  in  it,  some 
talking,  others  smoking  and  playing  dominoes.  Franz  and  I  sat 
down  at  one  of  the  tables  out  in  the  middle  of  the  floor,  where 
there  was  least  light ;  while  we  could  easily  see  the  other  three, 
who  were  under  the  glare  of  the  reflection  from  the  white  wall. 
We  could  also  hear  what  they  said  at  times,  as  they  seemed  to 
have  every  confidence  in  no  one  but  themselves  understanding 
English. 

They  played  dominoes,  at  five  francs  the  game,  and  fifty  centimes 


320  KILMENV. 

eac'li  time  a  double-six  was  played.  This  comparatively  harmless 
form  of  amusement  was  proceeded  with  for  some  time,  while  wine 
was  liberally  drunk.  It  was  noticeable,  however,  that,  out  of 
mere  courtesy,  Alfred  Burnham  kept  his  young  friend's  glass  con- 
stantly filled  ;  and  as  the  latter  was  smoking  what  seemed  a 
strong  and  oily  cigar,  he  drank  at  the  same  time  a  good  deal  of 
the  sparkling,  pale  wine  that  was  so  generously  offered  him. 

"  I  have  won  eight  francs,"  said  Burnham,  with  a  laugh.  "  I 
must  go  home  now,  and  carry  off  my  winnings.  How  much  have 
you  won,  my  lord?" 

"  Twenty-six  or  twenty-seven,"  said  the  young  man,  with  a 
louder  laugh ;  and  his  eyes  were  now  flushed. 

"  Then  I  must  be  the  loser,"  said  the  oldest  of  the  three,  with 
a  resigned  air.  "  Such  is  luck.  Shall  we  go  back  to  the  hotel 
now,  Sir  Charles  ?" 

So  Mr.  Burnham  had  become  Sir  Charles  Somebody. 

"  Yes,"  said  Sir  Charles,  rising,  and  concealing  a  yawn  ;  "  1  feel 
rather  tired." 

"  Let  us  make  a  sweepstakes  of  our  winnings,  Sir  Charles,"  said 
the  young  man.  "  I  will  put  my  twenty-six  francs  against  yuur 
eight,  and  we  will  cut  for  it." 

"  I  could  not  be  guilty  of  such  a  piece  of  robbery,"  said  Burn- 
ham, with  another  laugh.  "  But  if  you  mean  to  cut  until  one  of  us 
shall  have  h^st  his  winnings,  let  us  do  it  with  cards.    Here,  gur^on  /" 

"  Oui,  m'sieur !" 

"Allez,  apportez-moi — achetez  pour  moi  un — un — un  jeu  de 
cartes  anglaises  ;  comprenez-vous  ?     II  faut  (ju'elles  soient  neuves." 

"  Bien,  m'sieur !" 

Burnham  turned  to  his  companions  with  a  sort  of  apology  for 
his  hesitating  French,  and  remarked  that  it  was  a  j»ity  all  the 
world  had  not  been  born  in  Buckinghamshire. 

"You  know  Bucks?"  said  the  young  man,  with  a  vinous  de- 
light. "  Why,  there  is  no  one  in  the  county  I  don't  know.  Are 
you  acijuaintcd  with  the  Bcckfords?" 

"No,"  replied  Alfred  Burnham,  hastily.  "I  said  Bucks  by 
cliance.  I  know  little  of  the  eounty  beyond  having  ridden 
through  it  once  or  twice.      I  am  from  the  north." 

"  Vrou\  the  fens,  or  the  Ridings,  or — " 

"  Westmorelanil,"  said  Sir  Charles  ;  and  then  he  abniptly 
changed  the  subject. 


OUR    TRUSTY    COUSIN.  321 

The  cards  were  brought,  and  some  more  wine.  They  cut  for 
francs  at  first,  and  Sir  Cliarles  won.  Then  they  cut  for  five  francs, 
in  order  to  get  it  over  the  sooner ;  and  fortune  kept  pretty  steady. 

"  You  must  let  me  join,"  said  the  person  from  Brighton.  "  I 
can't  let  you  have  all  the  fun  to  yourselves.  Suppose  that  I,  too, 
have  won  twenty-five  francs ;  and  let  us  go  on  cutting  until  some 
one  has  won  the  whole." 

"  Agreed,"  said  Sir  Charles ;  and  they  went  on  shuffling  and 
cutting  the  cards. 

Now  this  ingenious  game  of  winning  or  losing  money  by  cut- 
ting for  the  highest  card  is  a  sufficiently  fair  trial  of  chances, 
under  ordinary  circumstances  ;  but  the  young  gentleman  who  was 
thus  amusing  himself  must  have  been  particularly  innocent  when 
he  did  not  perceive  that  the  odds  were  considerably  against  his 
winning.  He  did  not  seem  to  reflect  on  the  possibility  of  his  two 
opponents  being  in  collusion,  however ;  and  so  they  went  on 
drinking  and  smoking  and  cutting  the  cat*ds,  until,  by  an  easy 
transition,  sovereigns  came  to  be  staked  instead  of  francs,  and  at 
length  I  saw  mysterious  pieces  of  paper  being  handed  across  the 
table,  with  a  scrawled  signature  thereon. 

It  did  not  occur  to  him  to  ask  what  was  the  value  of  the  I.  O.U.'s 
against  which  he  was  staking  his  own  signature. 

"  Hadn't  we  better  stop  ?"  said  the  eldest  of  them. 

"  No,  no,"  said  the  young  man,  who  was  now  half-tipsy.  "  Let 
us  have  one  or  two  more — good  big  ones.  I  have  lost  t'  much. 
Luck  must  turn." 

But  there  was  no  luck  in  the  matter.  There  was  a  dead  cer- 
tainty of  his  losing ;  and  he  lost. 

"  How  these  things  mount  up  with  your  confounded  '  double 
or  quits  !'  "  said  Burnham  to  his  colleague.  "  Do  you  know  how 
much  money  I  have  won  from  you  ?" 

"  Haven't  the  faintest  idea  !"  said  the  other ;  and,  indeed,  there 
was  little  reason  why  he  should  care. 

"One  hundred  and  thirty-two  pounds,  as  near  as  I  can  make 
out." 

"  The  devil !" 

"  And  how  much  do  I  owe  you,  my  lord  ?"  said  Burnham. 

The  young  man  pushed  all  the  bits  of  paper  over  to  him. 

"  Look  for  yourself  !"  he  said,  with  an  indolent,  intoxicated 
gesture.     "  I  can't  make  head  or  tail  of  them." 

02 


322  KILMENY. 

Alfred  Burnliam  looked  over  the  papers. 

"  By  Jove !"  he  said,  "  I  find  that  I  owe  you  £G0.  Shall  I 
give  an  I.  O.  U.  for  the  amount  to  Mr.  Temple,  and  that  will  be  so 
much  towards  what  you  owe  him  ?  Then  he  can  arrange  with 
me,  when  he  pays  me  what  he  owes  me." 

"  All  right,  all  right ;  it  will  save  trouble.  Then  I  owe  you 
something  still,  Mr. — Mr.  Temple  ?" 

"  Yes,  my  lord,"  said  Temple,  calmly  holding  out  certain  pieces 
of  paper.  "I  find  here  I.  O.  U.'s  for  £380.  With  the  £60  de- 
ducted, the  amount  will  be  £320." 

The  boy  was  sobered  in  an  instant. 
,  "Three  hundred  and  twenty  !"  he  said,  as  he  rose  to  his  feet, 
with  his  face  blanched — perhaps  more  with  anger  than  with  dis- 
may. 

I  think  ho  would  have  broken  into  some  angry  denunciations 
but  that  both  of  the  two  men  kept  their  eyes  fixed  on  him,  and 
Temple  said,  coldly — 

"  Yes,  my  lord,  that  is  the  sum.  Will  you  give  me  a  note  of 
hand  for  the  whole  amount,  or  shall  I  call  upon  you  at  your  hotel 
with  these  papers?" 

"  Come  to  my  hotel  to-morrow  morning,"  said  the  lad ;  and 
the  way  in  which  he  said  so  showed  that  he  now  perceived  the 
character  of  the  men  with  whom  lie  was  dealing. 

At  this  moment  I  walked  over  to  the  small  table  at  which  they 
sat,  and  lit  a  bit  of  paper  at  the  gas  overhead.  While  doing  so 
I  looked  at  Alfred  Buniham,  and  he  grew  suddenly  pale. 

"Ah,  how  do  you  do,  Mr.  liuniham  ?"  I  said;  "who  would 
have  expected  to  see  you  in  Brussels  ?" 

The  boy  looked  on  in  amazement.  To  hear  Sir  Charles  ad- 
dressed as  Mr.  Burnliam  told  him  whatever  he  had  not  already 
divined. 

"  Who  the are  you?     1  don't  know  you  !"  said  Burnliam, 

furiously. 

"I  am  sorry  for  that,"  T  said,  light iiig  my  cigar,  "for  I  have 
just  seen  several  of  your  friends  in  Kiiglaiid,  who  would  be  glad 
of  your  address.  They  seem  to  have  lost  sight  of  you  since  you 
left— Westmoreland." 

i  li.id  nearly  said  Burnli.iin,  but  1  remembered  on  the  instant 
that  the  young  lord  had  l)()astt«l  Of  his  acquaintance  with  every 
family  in  Bucks,  and  I  thought  that  he  might  connect  this  man 


OUR    TRUSTY    COUSIN.  323 

with  the  lady  who  was  known  to  be  the  mistress  of  Burnham 
House.  Had  I  had  less  interest  in  the  matter,  I  should  have  been 
even  then  loth  to  have  Hester  Burnham  recognized  as  a  friend  or 
relative  of  a  common  swindler.  Meanwhile,  the  hint  about  his 
address  seemed  to  have  maddened  him.  He  swore  a  furious  oath, 
and  jumped  to  his  feet.  Franz  came  over  just  then,  and  also  pro- 
duced a  cigar. 

"  Was  wunscht  der  Dummkopf  ?"  he  said,  coolly. 

"  For  God's  sake,  let  us  have  no  fighting,"  said  Temple. 

"  As  you  please,"  I  said  ;  "  but  perhaps  you  will  give  this  young 
gentleman  your  real  names  and  addresses  when  next  you  play 
with  him.  And  perhaps,  before  he  pays  you  to-morrow,  he  will 
get  somebody  to  inquire  about  them.  Good-evening,  Mr.  Burn- 
ham." 

So  Franz  and  I  turned  and  left. 

"  Lucky  for  you,"  said  Franz,  "  that  Burnham  hadn't  a  revolver 
in  his  pocket.  I  never  saw  a  man  so  clearly  look  murder  as  he 
did  just  now." 

The  lad  who  had  been  playing  with  them  came  running  down 
after  us,  and  overtook  us  just  as  we  were  leaving. 

"  Wliat  am  I  to  do  ?"  he  said — "  what  am  I  to  do  ?  I  have  been 
swindled.     I  have  been  robbed." 

"  You  might  have  found  that  out  a  little  earlier,"  said  I. 

"  But  I  won't  pay  these  I.  O.  U.'s— " 

"  You  will  be  a  considerable  ass  if  you  do.  Go  straight  up  to 
the  Commissary  of  Police ;  state  your  case,  and  ask  his  advice. 
If  either  calls  for  payment  in  the  morning — which  is  far  from 
likely — refer  him  to  your  friend  the  Commissary,  and  recommend 
him  to  leave  Brussels." 

"  How  can  I  ever  thank  you  sufficiently  ?  It  is  not  the  amount, 
but  the  disgrace  of  being  swindled,  that  I  should  have  dreaded. 
How  can  I  repay  you  ?" 

"  Well,  in  this  way.  When  you  tell  your  English  friends  how 
two  of  your  countrymen  tried  to  swindle  you,  don't  say  that  one 
of  them  was  called  Burnham.  He  will  achieve  fame  soon  enough. 
That  is  all  I  ask  of  you." 

"  I  promise  faithfully.  But — but  won't  yoii  come  and  dine 
with  me  ?" 

I  believe  the  boy  was  actually  afraid  of  being  left  alone,  lest  his 
friends  the  card-players  should  follow  and  threaten  him. 


324  KILMENY. 

"  Thank  you,"  I  said ;  "  I  fancied  you  had  dined  sufficiently 
before  you  sat  down  to  play  cards  with  two  strangers.  And  we 
were  going  to  the  theatre,  when  the  amusement  of  watching  you 
and  them  enticed  us  to  Avait.  We  shall  be  in  time  for  the  operet- 
ta, however  ;  and  so,  good-night !" 

"Good-night;  and  thank  you  very  much." 

"Your  English  families  should  keep  their  children  in  the  nurs- 
ery until  they  are  able  to  take  care  of  themselves  out-of-doors," 
said  Franz. 


CHAPTER  XXXVII. 

IN    MUNICH    AGAIN. 


LiNELE  was  in  a  particularly  kindly  mood  when  we  arrived. 
Franz  had  merely  called  at  his  lodgings  in  passing,  to  leave  his 
luggage  and  top-coat,  and  bring  his  zither  with  him ;  then  we 
drove  on  in  the  droschke  to  the  Konigin  Strasse,  and  made  our 
appearance  in  the  Professor's  house. 

Lena  received  us  with  the  dignity  of  a  small  empress.  She 
allowed  Franz  to  kiss  her  hand ;  and  answered  in  a  stately  man- 
ner his  inquiries  after  the  health  of  Annele.  But  her  decorum 
quite  broke  down  when  Franz  took  out  of  a  box  a  remarkably 
pretty  fan,  and  presented  it  to  her.  She  looked  at  it  all  round, 
and  opened  it,  and  shut  it,  and  then  kissed  it  atfectioiiately,  and 
put  it  in  the  box  again.  I  think  she  would  have  kissed  Franz, 
too,  if  nobody  had  been  by  ;  for  had  he  not  brought  a  handsome 
vtjiume  of  engravings  for  ihc  Ilcrr  Papa,  and  a  wonderful  case  of 
housewifely  implements,  all  real  English  cutlery,  for  the  Frau 
Mamma?     No  prospective  son-in-law  could  have  done  more. 

The  evening  was  devoted  to  the  questioning  of  Franz  about  his 
foreign  experiences.  The  Professor  would  know  everything  about 
the  galleries,  and  the  architecture  of  the  principal  towns,  and  so 
forth  ;  Linele's  mamma  was  curious  to  know  how  people  lived  in 
a  land  that  was  so  full  of  n)oney — what  and  when  they  ate,  and 
whether  everything  was  comfortable  in  proportion  to  its  expense ; 
whilf  Lena  herself  would  know  how  the  young  ladies  of  London 
looked,  and  where  they  walked  in  the  constant  rains  and  fogs, 
and  what  sort  of  dresses  they  wore  in  such  a  climate.     Then  she 


IN    MUNICH    AGAIN.  325 

took  out  the  fan  again,  and  asked  Franz  if  he  had  seen  the  opera- 
house  filled  with  the  richest  ladies  in  the  world,  and  whether  they 
were  all  loaded  with  diamonds,  and  gleaming  in  white  satins  and 
silks. 

"  Papa,"  cried  Linele,  petulantly,  "  I  don't  believe  he  has  been 
in  England  at  all.  He  has  seen  nothing  diflEerent,  nothing  strange ; 
and  I  believe  they  have  been  away  hiding  somewhere,  to  escape 
their  painting,  and  play  billiards  and  go  to  the  theatre.  It  is 
wicked  of  them  to  deceive  us,  isn't  it,  papa  ?  And  you  won't  take 
the  engravings,  will  you  ? — and  I  will  give  him  back  the  fan,  for 
it  never  came  from  England,  I  know  !" 

The  Professor  looked  up  in  mute  bewilderment.  He  had  been 
looking  at  an  engraving  of  one  of  Turner's  Italian  landscapes,  and 
had  got  lost  there.     But  the  mamma  said — 

"  Now,  now,  Linele,  don't  bother  Mr.  Frank,  when  he  has  been 
so  kind  to  you.  And  you  have  never  even  thanked  Mr.  Edward 
for  the  pretty  necklace  he  has  given  you — " 

"  But  I  have  put  it  round  my  neck :  isn't  that  enough  for  him  ?" 
said  Linele,  proudly. 

"  And,  instead  of  bothering  the  gentlemen,  you  might  go  and 
get  up  two  bottles  of  the  red  Rhinewine,  since  this  is  a  grand  oc- 
casion— " 

"  But  we  have  just  been  drinking  beer  as  we  came  along,"  said 
Franz. 

"  That  doesn't  matter,"  said  the  Frau  Professor,  with  a  sage  nod 
of  the  head.     "You  know  what  they  say — 

'  Wein  auf  Bier,  das  rath'  ich  dir ; 
Bier  auf  Wein,  das  lass  du  sein!' 

There  is  sense  in  that.  Go  along  with  you,  Lena,  and  make  your- 
self useful." 

Presently  Lena  appeared,  making  a  great  fuss  about  carrying 
the  two  bottles  of  Assmanshauser,  and  pretending  to  be  greatly 
fatigued  by  their  weight.  Then  she  placed  them  jauntily  on  the 
table,  and  went  for  glasses,  and  put  them  down  with  a  saucy 
air. 

"  In  England,  young  ladies  don't  wait  upon  gentlemen,"  said 
Lena,  with  a  toss  of  her  head. 

"Move's  the  pity,  then,"  said  her  mother,  sharply.  "What  do 
they  do  then,  I  wonder  ?" 


326  KILMENY. 

"  They  drive  in  carriages,  and  dress  in  silk,  and  sit  at  ta- 
ble like  queens,  and  have  all  the  gentlemen  serve  them,"  said 
Linele. 

"  And  have  the  gentlemen  nothing  to  do,  either  ?"  said  the 
mamma,  with  a  touch  of  scorn. 

"  They  can't  do  anything  better  than  wait  upon  ladies,"  retort- 
ed Linele. 

"  Your  head  is  full  of  wool,  Lena,"  said  the  mamma ;  and  that 
stopped  the  discussion  for  the  moment. 

So  we  settled  down  to  our  ordinary  work  again  ;  and  in  process 
of  time  I  got  my  "  Wolundur "  finished.  The  Professor  had 
taken  great  interest  in  the  progress  of  the  work,  and  had  mate- 
rially helped  me  by  plenty  of  sound  suggestion  and  able  criticism. 
I  was  beginning  to  feel  my  way  more  surely  now,  and  to  be  able 
to  test  in  a  measure  the  value  of  what  I  was  doing.  "  Kilmeny  " 
had  been  more  of  a  surprise  to  myself  than  it  could  have  been  to 
anybody  else ;  but  the  technical  knowledge  I  had  acquired  under 
the  Professor's  care,  added  to  the  effect  of  his  lectures  upon  tlie 
various  qualities  of  the  Pinathotliek  masters,  gave  me  a  better  no- 
tion of  what  I  could  do,  and  what  I  could  not  do,  myself.  1  knew 
that  this  picture  was  freer  in  manner  and  altogether  more  mature 
than  its  predecessor;  and  I  was  so  far  convinced  of  this  that  I 
formed  the  project  of  offering  "Wolundur"  to  Mr.  Webb  in  ex- 
change for  "Kilmeny,"  which  I  was  desirous,  for  many  reasons, 
of  getting  into  my  own  hands. 

When  it  was  finished,  I  consigned  the  picture  to  lleatherleigh's 
care.  He  had  undertaken  to  send  it  into  the  Academy.  In  the 
interin),  however,  I  received  a  long  letter  from  him,  expressing  his 
<^>wn  opinions  about  tlie  tiling,  and  saying  that  he  had  shown  it, 
among  others,  to  the  Jew-dealer  whom  I  knew. 

"lie  offers  you,"  lie  wrote,  "  foiir  Imndred  guineas  for  the 
work.  I  hope  your  brain  won't  be  turned  by  the  announcement, 
which  means  more  than  you  fancy.  Old  Solomons  pays  a  man 
according  to  the  rcimtatioii  Ik^  has  made;  merely  because  it  is 
that  alone  which  has  any  weight  with  the  majority  of  his  custom- 
ers; and  therefore  you  may  have  some  idea  of  what  'Kihneny' 
has  earned  for  you.  But  I  wouhl  not  close  with  him,  if  1  were 
you.  Send  the  picture  into  lln'  Academy,  and  let  it  take  its 
chance.  If  it  docs  what  I  expect  it  will  do,  you  will  be  iniindiitdd 
with  commissions,  which  for  yet  a  year  or  two  you  should  under- 


IN    MUNICH    AGAIN.  327 

take  most  sparingly.     The  results  of  your  stay  in  Munich  are  ap- 
parent in  every  part  of  this  picture,"  etc.,  etc. 

He  was  strongly  opposed  to  ray  bartering  the  picture  for  "  Kil- 
meny  ;"  but  seeing  that  I  persisted  in  the  notion,  he  went  to  Mr. 
Webb  and  laid  the  matter  before  him.  Then,  as  before  and  since, 
that  gentleman  acted  in  a  manner  which  any  one,  regarding  his 
dry,  timid  manner  and  cold  look,  would  scarcely  have  expected 
from  him.  That  is  to  say,  instead  of  treating  me,  a  stranger  to 
him,  in  an  ordinary  businesslike  manner,  he  showed  a  frank  gen- 
erosity and  fairness  which,  I  regret  to  say,  surprised  me.  For  I 
had  not  met  many  English  gentlemen  ;  and  there  still  hung  about 
me  a  half-conscious  apprehension,  begotten  of  my  experience  of 
Weavle,  that  every  stranger  to  you  must  necessarily  be  on  the  out- 
look to  take  advantage  of  you  for  his  own  benefit. 

As, before,  Mr.  Webb  placed  himself,  as  a  purchaser,  in  open 
competition  with  everybody  else.  Having  seen  the  picture,  he 
expressed  his  willingness  to  give  as  much  for  it  as  any  purchaser 
might  oflEer  after  it  had  been  exhibited  in  the  Academy — then  to 
deduct  from  this  sum  the  price  he  had  paid  for  "  Kilmeny,"  and 
send  me  the  latter  picture,  with  the  difference  in  money. 

The  difference,  when  it  came,  was  nearly  two  hundred  guineas. 
The  draft  was  made  payable  on  a  Munich  banker;  and  when  I 
got  the  slip  of  paper,  I  endeavored  to  fancy  myself  ten  years 
younger,  and  to  picture  what  I  should  have  thought  in  Weavle's 
shop  of  becoming  the  owner  of  such  a  sum. 

"  Kilmeny  "  for  the  present  was  to  remain  with  Mr.  Webb ;  it 
was  useless  to  send  it  over  to  Munich,  when  in  a  few  months  I 
might  be  returning  to  England. 

On  receipt  of  this  money,  I  kept  up  a  good  old  English  custom 
in  a  foreign  land.  I  invited  the  Professor,  his  wife,  and  Lena, 
Franz,  Silber,  and  one  or  two  others,  to  a  dinner  at  a  restaurant. 
The  little  black-eyed  actress  could  not  be  persuaded  to  come,  not- 
withstanding it  was  represented  to  her  that  we  should  be  in  a  pri- 
vate room,  and  unseen  by  the  vulgar  gossips  of  the  city.  She 
pleaded  a  late  rehearsal,  though  I  fancy  her  mamma's  notions  of 
propriety  had  something  to  do  with  it. 

We  were  a  very  merry  party ;  and  even  Silber  forgot  to  look 
miserable,  and  was  for  carrying  his  complaisance  to  the  extent  of 
singing  a  song  after  dinner — a  gratification  which  we  managed  to 
escape.     Instead  we  all  went  over  to  a  box  which  I  had  secured 


328  KILMENY. 

at  the  Hoftheater ;  and  there  Linele,  who  had  dressed  her  hair  in 
the  English  fashion,  sat  like  a  little  princess  at  the  front  of  the 
box,  and  displayed  the  gleaming  fan  that  Franz  had  given  her. 

It  was  "  Linda "  they  sang ;  and  the  good  mamma  sat  and 
cried  a  little,  covertly,  over  the  pretty  story  of  Linda's  trials  and 
faithfulness,  and  ultimate  reward. 


CHAPTER  XXXVIIL 

KILMENY      COMES     HOME. 


Was  I  free  at  last,  only  to  be  tired  of  my  freedom  ?  I  could 
go  where  I  liked ;  I  could  spend  my  time  as  it  pleased  me ;  I 
had  money  at  command,  and  was  my  own  master;  I  was  afraid 
of  no  man,  and  knew  that  I  had  the  power  to  compel  the  future 
to  be  serviceable  to  me,  so  that  I  could  take  up  my  abode  in  any 
part  of  Europe,  and  feel  sure  of  being  able  to  live  there  in  com- 
fort and  peace. 

Or  I  could  travel  about  from  city  to  city,  from  village  to  vil- 
lage, stopping  here  and  there  as  I  chose,  and  seeing  men  and 
manners  and  things.  The  world  was  before  me ;  and,  in  so  much 
as  I  cared  for  it,  1  was  its  master.  I  could  make  it  yield  me  the 
things  that  I  wanted,  for  my  needs  were  not  groat.  The  chiefest 
of  them  had  been  all  along  this  freedom  from  control,  and  now  I 
had  achieved  it. 

I  had  achieved  it  only  to  find  that  indoj)end('nce  meant  isola- 
tion. There  wore  no  kindly  bonds  of  duty  gnvorning  my  daily 
actions,  and  yielding  the  pleasures  of  solf-sacritico.  There  was 
no  obligation  connected  with  my  art-efforts;  on  the  contrary, 
thoy  were  the  keenest  delight  I  experienced,  and  following  thorn 
was  in  no  sense  a  duty.  Outside  of  this  pursuit,  I  had  nothing 
particular  to  live  for;  and  I  was  beginning  to  weary  of  too  much 
content,  that  poor  sort  of  sunshine  that  lights  up  the  narrow  world 
of  selfishness. 

"Will  Hester  Burnham  ever  come  to  redeem  her  pledge?"  1 
used  to  think.  "  Will  it  over  happen  that  the  dream  I  dreamed 
in  the  Tyrol  will  rouw  true, and  we  together  shall  go  down  through 
the  wcmderful  valley,  all  by  ourselves?     \A'ill  it  ever  happen  that 


KILMENY    COMES    HOME.  329 

eacli  day  shall  be  filled  with  the  numberless  duties  of  love ;  and 
that  I  shall  have  to  watch  over  my  darling,  and  tend  her,  and 
keep  her  safe  from  the  cold  winds  and  the  rain  ?" 

There  was  no  sign  or  word  from  her  away  in  England.  The 
many  letters  I  got  from  various  people  mentioned  her  only  by 
chance,  and  then  said  nothing  definite.  She  was  supposed  to  be 
waiting  to  see  how  matters  should  be  arranged  about  the  letting 
of  Burnham,  and  the  clearance  of  the  obligations  which  her  cous- 
in's kindness  had  imposed  upon  her.  Indeed,  my  correspondents 
were  too  busy  to  waste  much  time  in  speculation.  Bonnie  Lesley 
was  preparing  for  her  marriage  ;  Heatherleigh  had  married,  and 
was  engaged  in  decorating  with  his  own  handiwork  a  small  house 
he  had  bought  up  at  Harapstead.  He  and  Polly  had  persuaded 
my  mother  to  go  and  live  with  them  ;  for  Polly,  said  Heather- 
leigh, would  bother  him  all  day  in  his  studio  unless  she  had  some- 
body else  to  talk  to  and  make  jokes  with. 

"  But  you  ought  not  to  take  a  mother-in-law  into  your  house," 
said  my  mother,  with  a  smile. 

"  But  I  shall  want  all  your  help,"  said  Polly,  wickedly.  "  For 
you  don't  know  what  a  miser  he  has  grown  of  late ;  and  unless 
we  are  two  to  one,  it  will  be  impossible  to  keep  the  house  in  any 
comfort.  Do  you  know,  my  dear,  that  five  minutes  after  we  w^ere 
married,  he  took  off  his  gloves,  rolled  them  up,  and  put  them  in 
his  pocket,  saying  they  would  do  for  the  first  time  we  went  to 
the  theatre  ?  Did  miserliness  ever  go  further ;  and  on  his  mar- 
riage-day, too  ?" 

I  learned,  indeed,  from  my  mother  that  Polly  regarded  her 
housekeeping  as  an  elaborate  joke,  and  that  she  spent  the  better 
part  of  the  day  in  laughing  over  the  eccentricities  of  an  Irish 
maid-servant  who  was  in  the  house,  and  in  laying  traps  to  exhibit 
the  artless  blunders  of  that  young  woman.  Yet  Polly,  in  spite 
of  her  imitations  of  the  butcher-boy,  and  her  fits  of  laughter  over 
the  courtesies  of  the  milk-man  to  the  Irish  maid-servant  aforesaid, 
looked  sharply  and  actively  after  her  domestic  affairs,  and  made 
a  capital  wife.  Heatherleigh,  too,  I  heard,  had  grown  ten  years 
younger  since  his  marriage ;  and  he  and  Polly,  when  all  the  day's 
work  of  each  was  over,  and  when  they  sat  down  to  supper,  were 
in  the  habit  of  conducting  themselves  pretty  much  like  a  couple 
of  children,  instead  of  two  grown-up  and  married  persons. 

Such  was  the  news  that  came  from  England ;  and  I  was  glad 


330  KILMENY. 

that,  amid  the  din  and  clamor  of  eager  money -getting,  there  were 
some  who  could  find  a  quiet  household  for  themselves,  and  peace 
therein.     As  for  the  houseless  one — where  was  she  ? 

I  forgot  now  to  look  with  any  interest  across  the  trees  of  the 
"  English  Garden."  I  had  lost  all  hope  of  seeing  her  walk  across 
that  patch  of  level  green  ;  not  that  her  coming  was  any  less  like- 
ly than  it  had  ever  been,  but  that  I  had  grown  to  see  that  it  had 
never  been  likely.  The  time  for  such  miracles  was  over,  and  it 
did  no  good  to  dream  of  them. 

But  one  morning,  as  I  was  passing  through  the  Promenaden- 
platz,  on  my  way  to  the  Nibelungen  frescos,  I  saw  two  ladies 
pass  into  the  courtyard  of  the  Bavarian  Hotel.  I  only  caught  a 
glimpse  of  them  as  they  turned  the  corner ;  and  yet  that  glimpse 
made  my  heart  beat.  If  it  were  really  she,  at  last,  and  the  small 
Madame  Laboureau  ? 

I  walked  up  to  the  front  of  the  courtyard,  and  looked  in. 
There  was  no  one  there  but  the  ordinary  troupe  of  commission- 
aires, porters,  and  droschke- drivers.  I  begged  permission,  how- 
ever, to  look  over  the  large  board  on  which  the  names  of  the  va- 
rious visitors  at  the  hotels  are  inscribed.  I  hurriedly  went  over 
the  bits  of  pasteboard — meeting  with  French  countesses,  German 
barons,  Russian  princes,  and  what  not ;  but  there  was  no  mention 
of  the  nartje  I  looked  for,  so  I  turned  away.  It  was  not  the  first 
time  I  had  been  mistaken  in  fancying  I  saw  the  slight,  graceful 
figure  I  knew  so  well  in  the  streets  of  Munich. 

I  went  along  to  the  Festsaalbau,  met  the  Professor  and  one  or 
two  of  his  students,  and  remained  there  for  about  an  hour.  Then 
we  left ;  and,  as  the  others  were  going  down  to  the  old  Pinatho- 
thek,  I  set  out  for  a  saunter  up  to  the  Tsar. 

I  suppose  you  kncjw  the  Max-Josephsplatz — the  splendid  square 
which  is  surrounded  by  the  palace  and  the  theatre  and  tlie  post- 
office,  which  looks  like  another  palace.  As  I  turned  into  this 
square — all  bright  and  clear  as  it  was  in  the  sunlight — I  saw, 
cro.ssing  the  corner  and  coming  towards  me,  the  figure  I  had 
seen  in  the  morning.  AVas  it  true,  then,  that  the  wjuidering  pos- 
sibility tli.it  had  haunted  me  through  all  these  long  months  was 
at  last  real  and  true?  Was  Hester  Burnham  really  in  Munich; 
and  should  I  actually  luar  her  speak,  away  over  here,  in  this  strange 
land? 

I  hastened  after  her,  as  she  went  across  the  square  towards  the 


KILMENY    COMES    HOME.  331 

Maximilian  Strasse.  She  p;lanced  up  at  the  statue  of  the  king,  and 
I  saw  the  outline  of  her  features.  Then  I  overtook  her,  and  she 
stopped,  and  I  found  her  hand  in  mine.  There  was  a  pale,  strange 
joy  in  her  face. 

"  You  have  come  to  me  at  last,"  I  said. 

"  Yes." 

"For  altogether?" 

It  was  her  eyes  that  spoke  the  answer ;  and  there,  in  the  open 
streets  of  Munich,  I  could  have  knelt  down  and  kissed  her 
hand. 

She  and  Madame  Laboureau  had  arrived  that  morning;  the 
hotel  people  had  not  yet  had  time  to  put  their  names  up.  Ma- 
dame was  fatigued;  and  Hester  had  come  out  alone  to  buy  some 
gloves — hence  the  meeting.  But  when  I  inquired  of  her  what 
had  brought  her  to  Munich,  she  looked  up,  somewhat  reproach- 
fully, and  asked,  in  that  low  and  tender  voice  of  hers,  if  I  had 
not  expected  her.  We  forgot  about  the  gloves.  We  wandered 
away  from  the  city,  and  past  the  gates  and  the  suburban  houses. 
There  was  a  clear  blue  sky  overhead,  and  occasionally  a  flock  of 
pigeons  whirring  past  and  gleaming  in  the  white  sunlight.  She 
and  I  had  a  whole  lifetime  to  settle,  and  how  fair  was  that  future 
that  lay  before  us !  The  light  of  it  shone  in  her  wistful  eyes, 
even  while  the  English  modulations  of  her  voice,  grown  almost 
unfamiliar  to  my  car,  recalled  England  and  all  the  by-gone  years. 

Weavle  had  at  last  been  cast  behind,  like  Satan.  The  old  days 
in  that  Holborn  workshop  were  like  a  nightmare  that  had  fled  be- 
fore the  morning  sunlight.  But  do  not  think  that  this  deliver- 
ance was  due  to  the  fact  that  I  had  now  more  money  than  I  had 
then.  God  forbid  that  I  should  have  written  this  history  of  my 
life  if  I  had  so  poor  a  triumph  to  tell  in  the  end.  It  needed  none 
of  Ileatherleigh's  teaching  to  show  me  that  money  was  not  the 
thing  that  made  life  most  beautiful  and  valuable ;  and,  as  Hester 
and  I  spoke  of  the  years  that  were  to  come,  and  as  I  told  her  how 
I  had  escaped  from  the  stifling  atmosphere  that  hung  over  the 
bitter  struggle  for  existence  in  England,  into  the  sweeter  and  se- 
rener  air  that  now  surrounded  us,  it  was  no  hope  of  riches  that 
lit  up  the  prospect  for  us,  and  no  desire  of  wealth  that  promised 
to  be  the  stimulant  of  our  future.  Yet  we  were  bold  enough  to 
think  that  some  measure  of  good  purpose  might  be  done  by  us, 
whether  we  lived  in  England  or  elsewhere,  if  we  could  only  shed 


332  KILMENY. 

around  115;  the  influences  of  two  lives  wisely  and  honestly  lived, 
and  made  honorable  and  noble  by  the  kindly  servitude  of  love. 

It  was  not  very  long  after  this  time  that  I  told  my  darlino-  a 
story.  She  and  I  were  at  Rolandseck,  over  the  Rhine,  and  we 
were  all  by  ourselves  there.  It  was  late  in  the  autumn,  and  all 
the  herd  of  tourists  had  gone  home  ;  I  think  we  were  the  only 
visitors  at  the  Hotel  Billau,  which  overlooks  the  river.  The  nights 
were  drawing  in  now ;  and  when  dinner  was  over,  and  we  went 
out  upon  the  balcony,  it  was  quite  dark,  and  we  could  scarcely 
see  the  great  stream,  though  we  heard  its  rippling  down  in  front 
of  us.  But  the  moon  was  slowly  rising  behind  the  heights  of 
Rolandseck;  and  so  I  wrapped  my  little  friend  in  comfortable 
shawls  and  furs,  and  together  we  waited  for  the  cold  night. 

How  still  it  was,  and  how  beautiful  too,  when  the  calm,  won- 
derful radiance  came  over  the  hills  behind,  and  showed  us  the 
magical  picture  that  lay  around  us.  Far  in  the  distance,  touched 
here  and  there  with  the  moonlight,  the  great  Drachenfels  rose 
from  over  the  river  up  into  the  dark,  .starlit  sky.  Down  at  our 
feet  the  broad,  still  stream  ran  softly  past,  until  it  smote  and 
quivered  in  silver  along  the  shores  of  the  island  of  Nonnenwerth, 
that  lay  out  there,  half  hid  in  a  pale,  mystical  haze.  And  high 
over  the  island  rose  behind  us,  sharp  and  black,  the  wooded  peak 
on  which  the  Knight  Roland  built  his  tower,  that  .so  ho  might 
look  down  on  his  love,  and  watch  her  as  she  came  out  with  her 
.sister-nuns  to  walk  around  the  cloisters  of  Nonnenwerth — until, 
at  last,  he  saw  her  funeral  procession,  and  never  spoke  more. 
Keener  and  clearer  grew  the  light,  until  it  shone  on  the  gray 
buildings  of  the  island,  and  gleamed  along  the  river  that  encircled 
it.  Here  and  there,  too,  were  specks  of  orange  light  visible  on 
the  other  bank,  where  some  cluster  of  cottages  lay  under  the 
shadf)W  of  the  mighty  Drachenfels;  and  we  could  hear,  far  down 
the  stream,  the  sound  of  some  boatmen  singing,  as  they  moored 
their  barges  clcse  in  by  the  .shore. 

There  was  no  need  of  much  talking  on  such  a  night:  it  was 
enough  to  sit,  one  great  shawl  over  both  of  us,  and  look  on  the 
wonderful  river  and  the  hills  and  the  stars.  But  my  darling, 
nestling  close  and  warm  under  her  manifold  plaids,  bade  me  lei! 
her  yet  one  more  tale  ;  and,  as  I  had  exhausted  all  I  knew  of 
Rhenish  legendary  lore,  I  told  her  a  .story  of  iMigland.  And  it 
was  this : 


KILMENY    COMES    HOME.  333 

"  There  was  once  a  boy  who  used  to  wander  all  over  the  country 
by  night  ;  and  he  fell  in  love  tvith  a  star.     And  he  said — 

'"0/i,  you  beautiful  small  creature/  come  down  ami  be  my 
companion,  and  we  will  go  through  the  world  together,  all  these 
coming  years.^ 

"■But,  as  he  xmlhed  on,  he  saw  a  Will-o'-the-wisp  shining  in 
the  dark,  and  he  said — 

"  '  Oh,  you  wonderful  creature  !  with  your  bright  eyes  and  your 
streaming  hair,  I  have  never  seen  anything  so  beautiful  as  you. 
Come,  and  we  will  go  through  the  world  together,  all  these  coming 
years.'' 

"  So  they  travelled  on  together.  But  in  a  little  while  the  Will- 
o'-the-wisp  began  to  flicker  up  and  down,  and  finally  flew  over  a 
hedge  and  disappeared  ;  and  he  ivas  left  in  the  dark. 

"  Then  he  looked  up,  and  lo  I  above  him  there  still  shone  the 
star,  and  it  was  as  gracious  and  as  beautiful  as  ever.  And  he 
said — 

"  '  Oh,  you  dear  small  creature  f  will  you  forgive  me  for  what 
I  have  done ;  and  will  you  always  look  down  on  me  as  you  do 
now,  and  I  shall  look  up  to  you  and  love  you .?' " 

That  was  the  question  I  asked  of  my  darling  as  we  sat  together 
there,  under  the  shadows  of  Rolandseck.  It  is  some  time  since 
then ;  and  I  who  write  these  words  am  still  looking  up  to  this 
beautiful  creature,  who  has  never  ceased  to  shed  her  soft  radiance 
around  me.  Perhaps  she  is  a  little  nearer  earth  now — but  that 
has  only  enlarged  her  brightness ;  and,  thinking  over  all  these 
things,  and  of  her  great  affection,  forbearance,  and  sweetness,  how 
can  I  help  regarding  her,  my  most  tender  and  faithful  friend,  with 
admiration  and  wonder  and  love  ? 


THE     END 


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